WORKS.  Riverside  Edition.  POETJCAL  WORKS,  2 
vols.,  $3.00.  PROSE  WORKS,  6  vols.,  $9.00.  The  set, 
8  vols.,  i2mo,  $12.00. 

I.,  II.   POEMS. 

III.  MARJORIE  DAW,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

IV.  PRUDENCE    PALFREY,   AND  A   RIVERMOUTH 

ROMANCE. 

V.   THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
VI.   THE  STILLWATER  TRAGEDY. 
VII.   THE  STORY  OF  A  BAD  BOY,  AND  THE  LITTLE 

VIOLINIST,  WITH  OTHER  SKETCHES. 
VIII.    FROM   PONKAPOG   TO  PESTH,  AND  AN   OLD 
TOWN  BY  THE  SEA. 

POEMS.  Household  Edition,  With  Portrait  and  Illus- 
trations. Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

For  the  numerous  single -volume  editions  of  Mr.  A  l- 
drich1  s  writings,  see  Catalogue. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


: 


THE   POEMS 


OF 


THOMAS    BAILEY  ALDRICH 


anti  Complete  hauacljoiu  Ctntton 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


liv.  Library,  UC  Santa  Cruz  1988 


Copyright,  1858,  1862,  1876,  1883,  1886,  1889,  1890,  1893,  1894,  1896,  1897, 
BY  THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

Copyright,  1865, 
BY  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS. 

Copyright,  1873, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1882,  1883,  1885, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  and  Company. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FLOWER  AND   THORN  .......  i 

BABY  BELL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

BABY   BELL   .           .           .           .           .           •          .          •           •  3 

PISCATAQUA   RIVER 7 

PAMPINA        .........  9 

INVOCATION  TO   SLEEP *  12 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GODDESS  .  .  .          .          .14 

AN    OLD   CASTLE •  l6 

LOST  AT  SEA 19 

THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE 21 

DIRGE    .          ',          '.          .          ......  23 

ON    LYNN   TERRACE             ......  25 

SEADRIFT       ...           .           .           ...           •           .  27 

THE  PIAZZA  OF   ST.   MARK   AT   MIDNIGHT       .          .  2g 

THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS 3O 

BAYARD   TAYLOR        34 

INTERLUDES 

HESPERIDES             .           .           .           .           .          .          .           •  35 

BEFORE  THE   RAIN    .......  36 

AFTER  THE  RAIN           ........  36 

A  SNOWFLAKE             .......  37 

FROST-WORK •          •          •  37 

THE  ONE  WHITE   ROSE 38 

LANDSCAPE  .  .          .          ...          .          .38 

NOCTURNE           .           .          .....          *          .  39 

APPRECIATION        .           .           .           .           .          k          •           .  4° 


iv  CONTENTS 

PALABRAS   CARINOSAS 4! 

APPARITIONS 42 

UNSUNG .           .           .  42 

AN    UNTIMELY   THOUGHT     ......  43 

ONE   WOMAN      ....          f           ...  44 

REALISM          , 45 

DISCIPLINE 45 

DESTINY .46 

NAMELESS   PAIN .  47 

HEREDITY      . 47 

IDENTITY.           .     V. 48 

LYRICS   AND   EPICS         .          .           •           •           •           .           .  49 

A   WINTER   PIECE 49 

KRISS    KRINGLE    .           .......           .  50 

RENCONTRE         . k  S1 

LOVE'S   CALENDAR ..51 

LOST   ART •          *        .  .  52 

CLOTH   OF  GOLD 

PROEM              .                                53 

AN   ARAB    WELCOME            ....                       «  54 

A   TURKISH   LEGEND .           .  54 

THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS      .          .          .          .  55 

THE   UNFORGIVEN           .           .           .          .           .          .          .  56 

DRESSING  THE   BRIDE         ......  58 

TWO   SONGS   FROM   THE   PERSIAN           .           .           .           .  58 

TIGER-LILIES      .           ...           .           ...  60 

THE  SULTANA       ".          .          "..         '.          *          .          *          •  6l 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY.       .       ....       .  62 

LATAKIA        .          '.          .          .          .          .          .          •          •  63 

WHEN   THE  SULTAN   GOES  TO   ISPAHAN            .           .  65 

A   PRELUDE  .          '.           .           .'."....  67 

TO   HAFIZ  .           .           .         >           .'        .        -.        '.           .  68 

AT  NIJNII-NOVGOROD   .......  69 

THE  LAMENT  OF  EL  MOULOK            .          .          .          .  7° 

NOURMADEE           .........  7« 


CONTENTS  v 

FRIAR  JEROME'S   BEAUTIFUL   BOOK  ETC. 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK  81 

MIANTOWONA 90 

THE  GUERDON 98 

TITA'S  TEARS ioi 

A    BALLAD 103 

THE   LEGEND   OF   ARA-CCELI IO; 

BAGATELLE 

CORYDON  —  A    PASTORAL 1 23 

ON    AN    INTAGLIO    HEAD   OF   MINERVA          .  .  .126 

THE   MENU 128 

COMEDY 129 

IN    AN   ATELIER 130 

AT  A   READING .  .133 

AMONTILLADO 135 

CARPE   DIEM 137 

DANS   LA   BOHEME 138 

THE   LUNCH 14! 

IMP   OF   DREAMS 14! 

AN    ELECTIVE   COURSE 142 

PEP1TA         .           ...           v           ....  145 

L'EAU    DORMANTE 148 

ECHO   SONG 149 

THALIA 150 

PALINODE 153 

MERCEDES 155 

FOOTNOTES  — A  BOOK  OF  QUATRAINS      ...  195 

SPRING   IN    NEW   ENGLAND 205 

WYNDHAM    TOWERS 213 

THE  SISTERS'  TRAGEDY,  WITH  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  SISTERS'  TRAGEDY 257 

ELMWOOD 261 

WHITE  EDITH 265 

SEA  LONGINGS 27! 


vi  CONTENTS 

THE  BELLS  AT  MIDNIGHT 273 

UNGUARDED  GATES        275 

IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 277 

A  SHADOW  OF  THE  NIGHT     .....  278 

THE  LAST  CAESAR 279 

TENNYSON *       •  2^3 

ALEC  YEATON'S  SON 285 

BATUSCHKA •        •  287 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WENDELL  PHILLIPS   .  288 

TWO   MOODS o  291 

THE  SHIPMAN'S  TALE 292 

BROKEN  MUSIC 294 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT      ....  295 

AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  MINOR  POET   ...  297 
SARGENT'S  PORTRAIT  OF  EDWIN  BOOTH  AT  "THE 

PLAYERS"         ...       .       •        •        •        •  3°° 
"WHEN  FROM  THE  TENSE  CHORDS  OF  THAT  MIGHTY 

LYRE"  .        .        .        .       .       «       •       •       •  301 

PAULINE   PAVLOVNA          .         .         .         .         .         .  3°3 

JUDITH   AND   HOLOFERNES 

BOOK       I.    JUDITH    IN   THE  TOWER            .           .           .  315 

BOOK     II.    THE   CAMP   OF  ASSHUR         .           .           .,          •  327 

BOOK   III.    THE   FLIGHT    ...          .          .          •  34° 

INTERLUDES 

PRESCIENCE  .  ....  .  .  •  '355 

MEMORY »           •  35^ 

A   MOOD           ..........  356 

ACT  v •        •       •  357 

GUILIELMUS   REX         ........  35^ 

A   DEDICATION.           .           .           ...           •           •  359 

"PILLARED   ARCH  AND   SCULPTURED  TOWER"             .  359 

THRENODY           .           .           .           ...           .           •  36° 

SESTET  .           .           .   .        .           .           •           •           .           •           •  3^T 

NECROMANCY     .           .           .  .-       .           .           »  •   -  :  •           *  3^J 

FOREVER   AND   A   DAY             .           .                       -           •           •  3^2 


CONTENTS  vii 

A  TOUCH  OF  NATURE 363 

"I'LL  NOT  CONFER  WITH  SORROW"        .       .       .  363 

IN  THE  BELFRY  OF  THE  NIEUWE  KERK      .       .  364 

NO  SONGS  IN  WINTER 365 

A  PARABLE      .       .       .       .       .       .       »       .  366 

INSOMNIA 366 

SEEMING  DEFEAT 367 

"LIKE  CRUSOE,  WALKING  BY  THE  LONELY  STRAND"  368 

KNOWLEDGE        .       .       .-      «.      ....  369 

THE  LETTER    ..«-......  369 

"  IN  YOUTH,  BESIDE  THE  LONELY  SEA "  .       .       .  370 

"GREAT  CAPTAIN,  GLORIOUS  IN  OUR  WARS"       .  371 

THE  WINTER  ROBIN 372 

A  REFRAIN       .    *  . 373 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEA     .       ...       .       .  374 

ART   .,       ,        .        .        .        ,        .        .        .        .  374 

IMOGEN            .           .           .-         .           .           «           .           *           .  375 

A   BRIDAL   MEASURE            .           .           .           «           •           •  376 

CRADLE   SONG        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  377 

SANTO  DOMINGO        .           .          ,.          .          V  .      •          .  377 

AT   A   GRAVE            .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .  378 

A   PETITION         .           .           .           .           .                       .           .  379 

XXVIII   SONNETS 

I.    INVITA   MINERVA    .          .          .          .          .  .381 

II.     FREDERICKSBURG 382 

III.  BY  THE   POTOMAC              .....  383 

IV.  PURSUIT   AND   POSSESSION             .          .          .    •  384 
V.     MIRACLES 385 

VI.    "  ENAMORED  ARCHITECT   OF  AIRY  RHYME"  386 

VII.     EIDOLONS '       .  387 

VIII.    AT   BAY   RIDGE,    LONG   ISLAND        .           .          .  388 

IX.    "  EVEN   THIS   WILL   PASS  AWAY "       .           .  389 

X.    EGYPT .  390 

XI.    AT   STRATFORD-UPON-AVON         ...  391 

XII.    WITH  THREE   FLOWERS           .          .          .          .  392 


viii  CONTENTS 

XIII.  THE   LORELEI 393 

XIV.  SLEEP       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  394 

XV.    THORWALDSEN 395 

XVI.    AN    ALPINE   PICTURE 396 

XVII.    TO   L.  T.    IN    FLORENCE    '  -.  .  .       ,   .  397 

XVIII.    HENRY   HOWARD    BROWNELL          .  .  398 

XIX.    THE   RARITY   OF   GENIUS     ....  399 

XX.     BOOKS   AND    SEASONS      .  ...  .  .  400 

XXI.    OUTWARD   BOUND         .    •       .           .           .     '      ..  40! 
XXII.    ELLEN   TERRY  IN  "  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VEN- 
ICE "      .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .  402 

XXIII.  THE  POETS 403 

XXIV.  THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY       .           .           .  404 
XXV.    ANDROMEDA          .         ...           .  *       .           .           .  405 

XXVI.    REMINISCENCE 406 

XXVII.   ON  READING  WILLIAM  WATSON'S  SONNETS 

ENTITLED  "  THE  PURPLE  EAST  "  .        .  407 
XXVIII.   "  I  VEX  ME  NOT  WITH  BROODING  ON  THE 

YEARS" 408 

SHAW   MEMORIAL   ODE          .....  409 

INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 413 

GENERAL   INDEX   OF   TITLES     .         .         .        .  420 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACK 

THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH,   FROM   A   PHOTOGRAPH 

BY  G.  c.  COX  OF  NEW  YORK       .        .        Frontispiece 
THE  QUEEN'S  RIDE     ......."        22 

DRESSING  THE  BRIDE V.      58 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN  ,       «         66 

FRIAR  JEROME        .       .       .       .       .    "  »       .       .82 
LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI '.  122 

MOONRISE  AT  SEA    .  .          .          .          .          i       '  .  .  2OO 

SPRING   IN    NEW    ENGLAND 2C)6 

JUDITH 316 

EGYPT    .        „ 390 


FLOWER  AND   THORN 

TO  L.   A. 


AT  Shiraz,  in  a  sultan's  garden,  stood 
A  tree  whereon  a  curious  apple  grew, 
One  side  like  honey,  and  one  side  like  rue. 

Thus  sweet  and  bitter  is  the  life  of  man, 
The  sultan  said,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

Herewith  together  you  have  flower  and  thorn, 
Both  rose  and  brier,  for  thus  together  grow 

Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

i 

ii 

Take  them  and  keep  them, 
Silvery  thorn  and  flower, 
Plucked  just  at  random 
In  the  rosy  weather  — 
Snowdrops  and  pansies, 
Sprigs  of  wayside  heather, 


FLOWER  AND   THORN 

And  five-leafed  wild-rose 
Dead  within  an  hour. 

Take  them  and  keep  them  : 
Who  can  tell  ?  some  day,  dear, 
(Though  they  be  withered, 
Flower  and  thorn  and  blossom,) 
Held  for  an  instant 
Up  against  thy  bosom, 
They  might  make  December 
Seem  to  thee  like  May,  dear ! 


BABY  BELL  AND  OTHER 
POEMS 


BABY  BELL 


HAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 
Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even  — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers  —  those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers : 
The-n  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 
3 


BABY   BELL 
II 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May; 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 
Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell; 
And  on  the  porch  the  slender  vine 
Held  out  its  cups  of  fairy  wine. 
How  tenderly  the  twilights  fell ! 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Came  to  this  world  of  ours. 


in 

O  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 
What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  — 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 
So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born. 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 


BABY   BELL  5 

This  real  world  and  that  unseen  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn  ; 

And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 

(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 

When  Baby  came  from  Paradise,)  — 

For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 

We  said,  Dear  Christ ! — our  hearts  bowed  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 


IV 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  pink  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 

Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime ; 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 

The  folded  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 

The  grapes  hung  purpling,  range  on  range 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Baby  Bell. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 

Her  angel-nature  ripened  too  : 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .  .  . 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 

We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame. 


BABY   BELL 


God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key ; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things 
Who  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 


VI 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees, 
We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell  — 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 
We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah !  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell ! 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER 
VII 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 
The  messenger  from  unseen  lands : 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow  — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours. 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER 

THOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Thou  singest,  and  the  sunlight  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 
So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 
An  hour  upon  thy  breast ! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER 

Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy ; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 

And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores  ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 
And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 
And  burn  the  tapering  spires ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 
And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

O  River !  flowing  to  the  main 
Through  woods,  and  fields  of  corn, 
Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn ; 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 
To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 
And  crags  where  I  am  known ! 


PAMPINA 

PAMPINA 

LYING  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 

Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 

Dripping  reefs  and  salty  caves, 

Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves, 

Faded ;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 

Myself  an  old-time  Florentine, 

In  the  heart  of  that  fair  land. 

And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 

Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place, 

I  met  Pampina  face  to  face  — 

A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 

Her  smile  was  to  know  Italy. 

Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 

Upon  her  Grecian  forehead  set, 

Where  one  gem  glistened  sunnily 

Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea. 

I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 

The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 

And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand 

The  olive  of  her  native  land. 

And,  knowing  how  in  other  times 
Her  lips  were  rich  with  Tuscan  rhymes 
Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 


io  PAMPINA 

My  mantle  by  an  almond-tree, 
And  "Here,  beneath  the  rose,"  I  said, 
"I  '11  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody." 
I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 
In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 
When  Heaven,  for  some  divine  offence, 
Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence ; 
And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade 
The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 
With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 
To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need, 
To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 
With  glint  of  plume  and  silver  brede. 
And  while  she  whispers  in  my  ear, 
The  pleasant  Arno  murmurs  near, 
The  timid,  slim  chameleons  run 
Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun ; 
The  breezes  blur  the  fountain's  glass, 
And  wake  aeolian  melodies, 
And  scatter  from  the  scented  trees 
The  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass. 

The  tale  ?    I  have  forgot  the  tale  — 
A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 
A  rose  tree,  and  a  nightingale 
That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn  j 
A  jar  of  rubies  buried  deep, 
A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 
A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 
In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle-wall. 


PAMPINA  II 

Now  while  the  dark-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance  — 
Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance  — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  seaside  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book, 
Half  vext  that  she  should  read,  and  weep 
For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep. 
And  scorning  one  so  tame  and  cold, 
She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 
Her  wind-swept  drapery,  fold  in  fold, 
Imprisoned  by  a  snowy  hand ; 
And  on  a  bowlder,  half  in  sand, 
She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 
Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 
A  siren  lithe  and  debonair, 
With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 
And  strings  of  lucent  amber  beads     , 
Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 
And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 
The  something  in  us  never  sleeps, 
But  laughs,  or  sings,  or  moans,  or  weeps, 
She  turned  —  and  on  her  breast  and  brow 
I  saw  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 
From  touches  of  New  England  sun ; 
I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand 
The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land. 


12  INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP 

She  turned  —  and,  lo !  within  her  eyes 
There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies. 

Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 
Of  reason  ;  oft  we  cannot  tell 
If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell  : 
But  to  my  thought  it  seems  not  strange 
That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 
With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 
I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy. 


INVOCATION   TO   SLEEP 


THERE  is  a  rest  for  all  things.     On  still  nights 
There  is  a  folding  of  a  world  of  wings  — 

The  bees  in  unknown  woods, 
The  painted  dragonflies,  and  downy  broods 

In  dizzy  poplar  heights  — 
Rest  for  innumerable  nameless  things, 
Rest  for  the  creatures  underneath  the  sea, 
And  in  the  earth,  and  in  the  starry  air. 
It  comes  to  heavier  sorrow  than  I  bear, 
To  pain,  and  want,  and  crime,  and  dark  despair 

And  yet  comes  not  to  me ! 


INVOCATION    TO   SLEEP  13 

II 

One  that  has  fared  a  long  and  toilsome  way 
And  sinks  beneath  the  burden  of  the  day, 

O  delicate  Sleep, 

Brings  thee  a  soul  that  he  would  have  thee  keep 
A  captive  in  thy  shadowy  domain 
With  Puck  and  Ariel  and  the  happy  train 
That  people  dreamland.     Give  unto  his  sight 
Immortal  shapes,  and  fetch  to  him  again 
His  Psyche  that  went  out  into  the  night ! 


in 

Thou  that  dost  hold  the  priceless  gift  of  rest, 
Strew  lotus  leaf  and  poppy  on  his  breast  j 

Reach  forth  thy  hand 
And  lead  him  to  thy  castle  in  the  land 

All  vainly  sought  — 
To  those  hushed  chambers  lead  him,   where  the 

thought 

Wanders  at  will  upon  enchanted  ground, 
And  never  human  footfall  makes  a  sound 

Along  the  corridors. 

The  bell  sleeps  in  the  belfry  —  from  its  tongue 
A  drowsy  murmur  floats  into  the  air 
Like  thistle-down.     There  is  no  bough  but  seems 
Weighted  with  slumber  —  slumber  everywhere ! 


14        THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    GODDESS 

Couched  on  her  leaf,  the  lily  sways  and  dips ; 
In  the  green  dusk  where  joyous  birds  have  sung 
Sits  Silence  with  her  finger  on  her  lips  \ 
Shy   woodland    folk   and   sprites   that   haunt  the 

streams 

Are  pillowed  now  in  grottoes  cool  and  deep ; 
But  I  in  chilling  twilight  stand  and  wait 
At  the  portcullis  of  thy  castle  gate, 
Longing  to  see  the  charmed  door  of  dreams 
Turn  on  its  noiseless  hinges,  delicate  Sleep ! 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  GODDESS 

A  MAN  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Of  old,  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 
And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 

The  narrow,  mean  attic,  I  see  it  now !  — 
Its  window  o'erlooking  the  city's  tiles, 
The  sunset's  fires,  and  the  clouds  of  snow, 
And  the  river  wandering  miles  and  miles. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   GODDESS 

Just  one  picture  hung  in  the  room, 
The  saddest  story  that  Art  can  tell  — 
Dante  and  Virgil  in  lurid  gloom 
Watching  the  Lovers  float  through  Hell. 

Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 
Pinched,  and  harassed  with  vain  desires ; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 

Midnight  filled  my  slumbers  with  song ; 
Music  haunted  my  dreams  by  day. 
Now  I  listen  and  wait  and  long, 
But  the  Delphian  airs  have  died  away. 

I  wonder  and  wonder  how  it  befell : 
Suddenly  I  had  friends  in  crowds ; 
I  bade  the  house-tops  a  long  farewell ; 
"  Good-by,"  I  cried,  "  to  the  stars  and  clouds ! 

"  But  thou,  rare  soul,  thou  hast  dwelt  with  me, 
Spirit  of  Poesy  !  thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be, 
Goddess  !  for  ever  and  ever  mine." 

And  the  woman  I  loved  was  now  my  bride, 
And  the  house  I  wanted  was  my  own ; 
I  turned  to  the  Goddess  satisfied  — 
But  the  Goddess  had  somehow  flown. 


16  AN   OLD    CASTLE 

Flown,  and  I  fear  she  will  never  return ; 
I  am  much  too  sleek  and  happy  for  her, 
Whose  lovers  must  hunger  and  waste  and  burn, 
Ere  the  beautiful  heathen  heart  will  stir. 

I  call  —  but  she  does  not  stoop  to  my  cry ; 
I  wait  —  but  she  lingers,  and  ah !  so  long! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  she  touched  my  lips  with  chrism  of  song. 

I  swear  I  will  get  me  a  garret  again, 
And  adore,  like  a  Parsee,  the  sunset's  fires, 
And  lure  the  Goddess,  by  vigil  and  pain, 
Up  with  the  sparrows  among  the  spires. 

For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 


AN  OLD  CASTLE 


THE  gray  arch  crumbles, 
And  totters  and  tumbles ; 
The  bat  has  built  in  the  banquet  hall ; 


AN   OLD   CASTLE 

In  the  donjon-keep 

Sly  mosses  creep ; 

The  ivy  has  scaled  the  southern  wall. 

No  man-at-arms 

Sounds  quick  alarms 

A-top  of  the  cracked  martello  tower; 

The  drawbridge-chain 

Is  broken  in  twain  — 

The  bridge  will  neither  rise  nor  lower. 

Not  any  manner 

Of  broidered  banner 

Flaunts  at  a  blazoned  herald's  call. 

Lilies  float 

In  the  stagnant  moat ; 

And  fair  they  are,  and  tall. 


Here,  in  the  old 

Forgotten  springs, 

Was  wassail  held  by  queens  and  kings; 

Here  at  the  board 

Sat  clown  and  lord, 

Maiden  fair  and  lover  bold, 

Baron  fat  and  minstrel  lean, 

The  prince  with  his  stars, 

The  knight  with  his  scars, 

The  priest  in  his  gabardine. 


18  AN   OLD   CASTLE 

ill 

Where  is  she 

Of  the  fleur-de-lys, 

And  that  true  knight  who  wore  her  gages  ? 

Where  are  the  glances 

That  bred  wild  fancies 

In  curly  heads  of  my  lady's  pages  ? 

Where  are  those 

Who,  in  steel  or  hose, 

Held  revel  here,  and  made  them  gay  ? 

Where  is  the  laughter 

That  shook  the  rafter  — 

Where  is  the  rafter,  by  the  way? 

Gone  is  the  roof, 

And  perched  aloof 

Is  an  owl,  like  a  friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

(Perhaps  't  is  the  priest 

Come  back  to  feast  — 

He  had  ever  a  tooth  for  capon,  he ! 

But  the  capon  's  cold, 

And  the  steward  's  old, 

And  the  butler 's  lost  the  larder-key !) 

The  doughty  lords 

Sleep  the  sleep  of  swords  ; 

Dead  are  the  dames  and  damozels ; 

The  King  in  his  crown 

Hath  laid  him  down, 

And  the  Jester  with  his  bells. 


LOST   AT   SEA  19 

IV 

All  is  dead  here  : 

Poppies  are  red  here, 

Vines  in  my  lady's  chamber  grow  — 

If  't  was  her  chamber 

Where  they  clamber 

Up  from  the  poisonous  weeds  below. 

All  is  dead  here, 

Joy  is  fled  here  ; 

Let  us  hence.     JT  is  the  end  of  all  — 

The  gray  arch  crumbles, 

And  totters,  and  tumbles, 

And  Silence  sits  in  the  banquet  hall. 


LOST   AT   SEA 

THE  face  that  Carlo  Dolci  drew 
Looks  down  from  out  its  leafy  hood  — 
The  holly  berries,  gleaming  through 
The  pointed  leaves,  seem  drops  of  blood. 

Above  the  dornice,  round  the  hearth, 
Are  evergreens  and  spruce-tree  boughs ; 
'Tis  Christmas  morning:  Christmas  mirth 
And  joyous  voices  fill  the  house. 


20  LOST   AT   SEA 

I  pause,  and  know  not  what  to  do ; 
I  feel  reproach  that  I  am  glad : 
Until  to-day,  no  thought  of  you, 

0  Comrade  !  ever  made  me  sad. 

But  now  the  thought  of  your  blithe  heart, 
Your  ringing  laugh,  can  give  me  pain, 
Knowing  that  we  are  worlds  apart, 
Not  knowing  we  shall  meet  again. 

For  all  is  dark  that  lies  in  store : 
Though  they  may  preach,  the  brotherhood, 
We  know  just  this,  and  nothing  more, 
That  we  are  dust,  and  God  is  good. 

What  life  begins  when  death  makes  end  ? 
Sleek  gownsmen,  is 't  so  very  clear  ? 
How  fares  it  with  us  ?  —  O  my  Friend, 

1  only  know  you  are  not  here ! 

That  I  am  in  a  warm,  light  room, 
With  life  and  love  to  comfort  me, 
While  you  are  drifting  through  the  gloom, 
Beneath  the  sea,  beneath  the  sea ! 

O  wild  green  waves  that  lash  the  sands 
Of  Santiago  and  beyond, 
Lift  him,  I  pray,  with  gentle  hands, 
And  bear  him  on  —  true  heart  and  fond  ! 


THE   QUEEN'S   RIDE  21 

To  some  still  grotto  far  below 
The  washings  of  the  warm  Gulf  Stream 
Bear  him,  and  let  the  winds  that  blow 
About  the  world  not  break  his  dream ! 

—  I  smooth  my  brow.     Upon  the  stair 
I  hear  my  children  shout  in  glee, 
With  sparkling  eyes  and  floating  hair, 
Bringing  a  Christmas  wreath  for  me. 

Their  joy,  like  sunshine  deep  and  broad, 
Falls  on  my  heart,  and  makes  me  glad : 
I  think  the  face  of  our  dear  Lord 
Looks  down  on  them,  and  seems  not  sad. 


THE  QUEEN'S   RIDE 

AN   INVITATION 

*T  is  that  fair  time  of  year, 
When  stately  Guinevere, 
In  her  sea-green  robe  and  hood, 
Went  a-riding  through  the  wood. 

And  as  the  Queen  did  ride, 
Sir  Launcelot  at  her  side 
Laughed  and  chatted,  bending  over, 
Half  her  friend  and  all  her  lover. 


22  THE   QUEEN'S   RIDE 

And  as  they  rode  along, 

The  throstle  gave  them  song, 

And  the  buds  peeped  through  the  grass 

To  see  youth  and  beauty  pass. 

And  on,  through  deathless  time, 

These  lovers  in  their  prime 

(Two  fairy  ghosts  together  !) 

Ride,  with  sea-green  robe,  and  feather ! 

And  so  we  two  will  ride, 
At  your  pleasure,  side  by  side, 
Laugh  and  chat ;  I  bending  over, 
Half  your  friend,  and  all  your  lover. 

But  if  you  like  not  this, 
And  take  my  love  amiss, 
Then  I  '11  ride  unto  the  end, 
Half  your  lover,  all  your  friend. 

So,  come  which  way  you  will. 
Valley,  upland,  plain,  and  hill 
Wait  your  coming.     For  one  day 
Loose  the  bridle,  and  away ! 


"THE   QUEEN'S    RIDE."    Page  22. 


DIRGE  23 


DIRGE 

LET  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Soon,  ah,  very  soon 
We  too  shall  not  know 
Either  sun  or  moon, 
Either  grass  or  snow. 

Others  in  our  place 
Come  to  laugh  and  weep, 
Win  or  lose  the  race, 
And  to  fall  asleep. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

What  does  all  avail  — 
Love,  or  power,  or  gold  ? 
Life  is  like  a  tale 
Ended  ere  't  is  told. 


24  DIRGE 


Much  is  left  unsaid, 
Much  is  said  in  vain  — 
Shall  the  broken  thread 
Be  taken  up  again  ? 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 

Kisses  one  or  two 
On  his  eyelids  set, 
That,  when  all  is  through, 
He  may  not  forget. 

He  has  far  to  go  — 
Is  it  East  or  West  ? 
Whither  ?     Who  may  know! 
Let  him  take  his  rest. 

Wind,  and  snow,  and  sleet— 
So  the  long  night  dies. 
Draw  the  winding-sheet, 
Cover  up  his  eyes. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm, 
Stir  the  dying  fire  : 
Upon  his  tired  arm 
Slumbers  young  Desire. 


ON   LYNN   TERRACE  25 


ON   LYNN   TERRACE 

ALL  day  to  watch  the  blue  wave  curl  and  break, 

All  night  to  hear  it  plunging  on  the  shore  — 
In  this  sea-dream  such  draughts  of  life  I  take, 
I  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain, 

The  task  unfinished,  and  the  weary  hours ; 

That  long  wave  softly  bears  me  back  to  Spain 

And  the  Alhambra's  towers ! 

Once  more  I  halt  in  Andalusian  Pass, 

To  list  the  mule-bells  jingling  on  the  height; 
Below,  against  the  dull  esparto  grass, 
The  almonds  glimmer  white. 

Huge    gateways,   wrinkled,   with   rich  grays   and 

browns, 

Invite  my  fancy,  and  I  wander  through 
The  gable-shadowed,  zigzag  streets  of  towns 
The  world's  first  sailors  knew. 

Or,  if  I  will,  from  out  this  thin  sea-haze 
Low-lying  cliffs  of  lovely  Calais  rise ; 
Or  yonder,  with  the  pomp  of  olden  days, 
Venice  salutes  my  eyes. 


26  ON   LYNN   TERRACE 

Or  some  gaunt  castle  lures  me  up  its  stair ; 
I  see,  far  off,  the  red-tiled  hamlets  shine, 
And  catch,  through  slits  of  windows  here  and  there, 
Blue  glimpses  of  the  Rhine. 

Again  I  pass  Norwegian  fjord  and  fell, 

And  through  bleak  wastes  to  where  the  sunset's 

fires 

Light  up  the  white-walled  Russian  citadel, 
The  Kremlin's  domes  and  spires. 

And  now  I  linger  in  green  English  lanes, 
By  garden-plots  of  rose  and  heliotrope ; 
And  now  I  face  the  sudden  pelting  rains 
On  some  lone  Alpine  slope. 

Now  at  Tangier,  among  the  packed  bazaars, 
I  saunter,  and  the  merchants  at  the  doors 
Smile,  and  entice  me :  here  are  jewels  like  stars, 
And  curved  knives  of  the  Moors ; 

Cloths  of  Damascus,  strings  of  amber  dates ; 

What  would  Howadji  —  silver,  gold,  or  stone? 
Prone  on  the  sun-scorched  plain  outside  the  gates 
The  camels  make  their  moan. 

All  this  is  mine,  as  I  lie  dreaming  here, 

High  on  the  windy  terrace,  day  by  day ; 
And  mine  the  children's  laughter,  sweet  and  clear, 
Ringing  across  the  bay. 


SEADRIFT  2 

For  me  the  clouds ;  the  ships  sail  by  for  me ; 

For  me  the  petulant  sea-gull  takes  its  flight  j 
And  mine  the  tender  moonrise  on  the  sea, 
And  hollow  caves  of  night. 


SEADRIFT 

SEE  where  she  stands,  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

Looking  across  the  water : 
Wild  is  the  night,  but  wilder  still 

The  face  of  the  fisher's  daughter. 

What  does  she  there,  in  the  lightning's  glare, 

What  does  she  there,  I  wonder  ? 
What  dread  demon  drags  her  forth 

In  the  night  and  wind  and  thunder  ? 

Is  it  the  ghost  that  haunts  this  coast  ?  —  ' 

The  cruel  waves  mount  higher, 
And  the  beacon  pierces  the  stormy  dark 

With  its  javelin  of  fire. 

Beyond  the  light  of  the  beacon  bright 

A  merchantman  is  tacking ; 
The  hoarse  wind  whistling  through  the  shrouds, 

And  the  brittle  topmasts  cracking. 


28  SEADRIFT 

The  sea  it  moans  over  dead  men's  bones, 

The  sea  turns  white  in  anger ; 
The  curlews  sweep  through  the  resonant  air 

With  a  warning  cry  of  danger. 

The  star-fish  clings  to  the  sea-weed's  rings 

In  a  vague,  dumb  sense  of  peril ; 
And  the  spray,  with  its  phantom-fingers,  grasps 

At  the  mullein  dry  and  sterile. 

Oh,  who  is  she  that  stands  by  the  sea, 
In  the  lightning's  glare,  undaunted  ?  — 

Seems  this  now  like  the  coast  of  hell 
By  one  white  spirit  haunted  ! 

The  night  drags  by ;  and  the  breakers  die 

Along  the  ragged  ledges ; 
The  robin  stirs  in  his  drenched  nest, 

The  wild-rose  droops  on  the  hedges. 

In  shimmering  lines,  through  the  dripping  pines, 

The  stealthy  morn  advances  ; 
And  the  heavy  sea-fog  straggles  back 

Before  those  bristling  lances. 

Still  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea-sands ; 

The  morning  breaks  above  her, 
And  the  corpse  of  a  sailor  gleams  on  the  rocks  — 

What  if  it  were  her  lover  ? 


THE   PIAZZA   OF   ST.    MARK  29 

THE   PIAZZA   OF   ST.   MARK  AT 
MIDNIGHT 

HUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices ; 
Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders, 
Slender-waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 
Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 
Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 
One  after  one,  like  sparks  in  cindered  paper, 
Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmiths'  windows. 
Drenched  with  the  moonlight  lies  the  still  Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 
Yonder  St.  Mark  uplifts  its  sculptured  splendor  — 
Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 
Color  on  color,  column  upon  column, 
Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to ! 
Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses, 
Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril, 
Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 
Skyward,  a  cloud  of  domes  and  spires  and  crosses ; 
Earthward,  black  shadows  flung  from  jutting  stone- 
work. 

High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 
Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver. 

Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices. 
Listen  —  from  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 


30  THE  METEMPSYCHOSIS 

Now  and  again  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon, 
Fairily  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 
This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 
Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble, 
Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  break  the  stillness. 
Deeper  each  moment  seems  to  grow  the  silence, 
Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 
Hark !  on  the  Tower  above  the  ancient  gateway, 
The   twin   bronze  Vulcans,  with  their  ponderous 

hammers, 
Hammer  the  midnight  on  their  brazen  bell  there ! 


THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS 

THE  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 
Fills  my  deep  dreaming.     Let  him  moan  and  die ; 
I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 
I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 
Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 
And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go ; 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 
On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 
Roaming  the  universe,  a  tireless  voice. 


THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS  31 

I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were ; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  in  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant  glooms,  I  dwelt ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 
A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 
Ploughed  through  the  brine,  and  from  those  soli- 
tudes 

Sent  Silence,  frightened.     To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  heard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 
The  stormy  sea-gods,  and  from  fluted  conchs 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 
Some  moaning  and  some  singing.     So  the  years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine  and  split  the  iron  rock ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bird, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted ;  so  we  fled, 


32  THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS 

Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-gods  left  behind ! 

Free  as  the  air  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew, 
Far  from  the  tumult  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  daybreak ;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ran  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands, 
And  here  and  there  a  convent  on  a  hill, 
And  here  and  there  a  city  in  a  plain ; 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  hidden  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts, 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea 
To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul  ? 
A  breath,  no  more.     And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price  —  that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream, 
That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 
Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 
Leapt  headlong  down  a  precipice ;  and  there, 
Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 
Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 
Than  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 
Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 
Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 


THE   METEMPSYCHOSIS  33 

For  beauty  and  great  suffering ;  and  I  sung, 
I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and  then 
Down  from  the  dewy  atmosphere  I  stole 
And  nestled  in  her  bosom.     There  I  slept 
From  moon  to  moon,  while  in  her  eyes  a  thought 
Grew  sweet  and  sweeter,  deepening  like  dawn  — 
A  mystical  forewarning  !     When  the  stream, 
Breaking  through  leafless  brambles  and  dead  leaves, 
Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 
The  fruit  dropt  noiseless  through  the  autumn  night, 
I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do : 
We  weep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die ! 
So  was  it  destined ;  and  thus  came  I  here, 
To  walk  the  earth  and  wear  the  form  of  Man, 
To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 
One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  everything  for  naught  ? 
No !  let  me  sit  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like   sleep;   and   though   I   waiting 

starve, 

I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park ; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul ; 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


34  BAYARD   TAYLOR 

BAYARD   TAYLOR 

IN  other  years  —  lost  youth's  enchanted  years, 

Seen  now,  and  evermore,  through  blinding  tears 

And  empty  longing  for  what  may  not  be  — 

The  Desert  gave  him  back  to  us ;  the  Sea 

Yielded  him  up  j  the  icy  Norland  strand 

Lured  him  not  long,  nor  that  soft  German  air 

He  loved  could  keep  him.     Ever  his  own  land 

Fettered  his  heart  and  brought  him  back  again. 

What  sounds  are  these  of  farewell  and  despair 

Borne  on  the  winds  across  the  wintry  main ! 

What  unknown  way  is  this  that  he  has  gone, 

Our  Bayard,  in  such  silence  and  alone  ? 

What  dark  new  quest  has  tempted  him  once  more 

To  leave  us  ?    Vainly,  standing  by  the  shore, 

We  strain  our  eyes.     But  patience  !     When  the  soft 

Spring  gales  are  blowing  over  Cedarcroft, 

Whitening  the  hawthorn  ;  when  the  violets  bloom 

Along  the  Brandywine,  and  overhead 

The  sky  is  blue  as  Italy's,  he  will  come  .  .  . 

In  the  wind's  whisper,  in  the  swaying  pine, 

In  song  of  bird  and  blossoming  of  vine, 

And  all  fair  things  he  loved  ere  he  was  dead ! 


INTERLUDES 


HESPERIDES 

IF  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me, 
This  is  what  my  songs  would  be : 
Hints  of  our  sea-breezes,  blent 
With  odors  from  the  Orient ; 
Indian  vessels  deep  with  spice  ; 
Star-showers  from  the  Norland  ice ; 
Wine-red  jewels  that  seem  to  hold 
Fire,  but  only  burn  with  cold ; 
Antique  goblets,  strangely  wrought, 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  happy  thought, 
Bridal  measures,  vain  regrets, 
Laburnum  buds  and  violets  ; 
Hopeful  as  the  break  of  day ; 
Clear  as  crystal ;  new  as  May ; 
Musical  as  brooks  that  run 
O'er  yellow  shallows  in  the  sun ; 
Soft  as  the  satin  fringe  that  shades 
The  eyelids  of  thy  Devon  maids ; 
Brief  as  thy  lyrics,  Herrick,  are, 
And  polished  as  the  bosom  of  a  star. 

35 


>  INTERLUDES 

BEFORE  THE   RAIN 

WE  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 
To  scatter  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain ! 


AFTER  THE  RAIN 

THE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood  ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 


INTERLUDES  37 

A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye. 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck ; 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


A  SNOWFLAKE 

ONCE  he  sang  of  summer, 
Nothing  but  the  summer ; 
Now  he  sings  of  winter, 
Of  winter  bleak  and  drear : 
Just  because  there  's  fallen 
A  snowflake  on  his  forehead 
He  must  go  and  fancy 
T  is  winter  all  the  year ! 


FROST-WORK 

THESE  winter  nights,  against  my  window-pane 
Nature  with  busy  pencil  draws  designs 
Of  ferns  and  blossoms  and  fine  spray  of  pines, 
Oak-leaf  and  acorn  and  fantastic  vines, 


38  INTERLUDES 

Which  she  will  shape  when  summer  comes  again 
Quaint  arabesques  in  argent,  flat  and  cold, 
Like  curious  Chinese  etchings.  ...  By  and  by 
(I  in  my  leafy  garden  as  of  old) 
These  frosty  fantasies  shall  charm  my  eye 
In  azure,  damask,  emerald,  and  gold. 


THE  ONE   WHITE   ROSE 

A  SORROWFUL  woman  said  to  me, 
"  Come  in  and  look  on  our  child." 
I  saw  an  Angel  at  shut  of  day, 
And  it  never  spoke  —  but  smiled. 

I  think  of  it  in  the  city's  streets, 
I  dream  of  it  when  I  rest  — 
The  violet  eyes,  the  waxen  hands, 
And  the  one  white  rose  on  the  breast ! 


LANDSCAPE 

GAUNT  shadows  stretch  along  the  hill  5 
Cold  clouds  drift  slowly  west ; 
Soft  flocks  of  vagrant  snowflakes  fill 
The  redwing's  frozen  nest. 


INTERLUDES  39 

By  sunken  reefs  the  hoarse  sea  roars ; 
Above  the  shelving  sands, 
Like  skeletons  the  sycamores 
Uplift  their  wasted  hands. 

The  air  is  full  of  hints  of  grief, 
Faint  voices  touched  with  pain  — 
The  pathos  of  the  falling  leaf 
And  rustling  of  the  rain. 

In  yonder  cottage  shines  a  light, 
Far-gleaming  like  a  gem  — 
Not  fairer  to  the  Rabbins'  sight 
Was  star  of  Bethlehem ! 


NOCTURNE 

UP  to  her  chamber  window 
A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 

I  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 
I  see  the  lady  lean, 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle. 
The  curtain's  folds  betv/een. 


40  INTERLUDES 

She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  lover, 
She  reaches  out  her  hand 
And  helps  him  in  at  the  window  — 
I  see  it  where  I  stand ! 

To  her  scarlet  lip  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time  — 
Ah,  me  !  it  was  he  that  won  her 
Because  he  dared  to  climb ! 


APPRECIATION 

To  the  sea-shell's  spiral  round 
'T  is  your  heart  that  brings  the  sound 
The  soft  sea-murmurs  that  you  hear 
Within,  are  captured  from  your  ear. 

You  do  poets  and  their  song 

A  grievous  wrong, 

If  your  own  soul  does  not  bring 

To  their  high  imagining 

As  much  beauty  as  they  sing. 


INTERLUDES  41 

PALABRAS  CARINOSAS 

(SPANISH  AIR) 

GOOD-NIGHT  !  I  have  to  say  good-night 
To-  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  the  slender  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings  ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  farewells.     Till  then,  good-night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago  — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands  !  ah,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 


INTERLUDES 


APPARITIONS 

AT  noon  of  night,  and  at  the  night's  pale  end, 
Such  things  have  chanced  to  me 

As  one,  by  day,  would  scarcely  tell  a  friend 
For  fear  of  mockery. 

Shadows,  you  say,  mirages  of  the  brain  ! 

I  know  not,  faith,  not  I. 
Is  it  more  strange  the  dead  should  walk  again 

Than  that  the  quick  should  die  ? 


UNSUNG 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes 
From  the  lips  of  the  blown  rose, 
As  weird  as  the  elfin  lights 
That  glimmer  of  frosty  nights, 
As  wild  as  the  winds  that  tear 
The  curled  red  leaf  in  the  air, 
Is  the  song  I  have  never  sung. 

In  slumber,  a  hundred  times 
I  have  said  the  mystic  rhymes, 


INTERLUDES  43 

But  ere  I  open  my  eyes 

This  ghost  of  a  poem  flies ; 

Of  the  interfluent  strains 

Not  even  a  note  remains  : 

I  know  by  my  pulses'  beat 

It  was  something  wild  and  sweet, 

And  my  heart  is  deeply  stirred 

By  an  unremembered  word  ! 

I  strive,  but  I  strive  in  vain, 
To  recall  the  lost  refrain. 
On  some  miraculous  day 
Perhaps  it  will  come  and  stay ; 
In  some  unimagined  Spring 
I  may  find  my  voice,  and  sing 
The  song  I  have  never  sung. 


AN  UNTIMELY  THOUGHT 

I  WONDER  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year  — 
Will  it  be  midnight,  or  morning, 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier  ?  .  . 

—  What  a  hideous  fancy  to  come 
As  I  wait  at  the  foot  of  the  stair, 


44  INTERLUDES 

While  she  gives  the  last  touch  to  her  robe, 
Or  sets  the  white  rose  in  her  hair. 

As  the  carriage  rolls  down  the  dark  street 
The  little  wife  laughs  and  makes  cheer  — 
But  ...  I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year. 


ONE  WOMAN 

THOU  listenest  to  us  with  unheeding  ear ; 
Alike  to  thee  our  censure  and  our  praise : 
Thou  hearest  voices  that  we  may  not  hear; 
Thou  livest  only  in  thy  yesterdays. 

We  see  thee  move,  erect  and  pale  and  brave ; 
Soft  words  are  thine,  sweet  deeds,  and  gracious 

will; 

Yet  thou  art  dead  as  any  in  the  grave  — 
Only  thy  presence  lingers  with  us  still. 

With  others,  joy  and  sorrow  seem  to  slip 
Like  light  and  shade,  and  laughter  kills  regret ; 
But  thou  —  the  fugitive  tremor  of  thy  lip 
Lays  bare  thy  secret  —  thou  canst  not  forget ! 


INTERLUDES  45 

REALISM 

ROMANCE  beside  his  unstrung  lute 

Lies  stricken  mute. 
The  old-time  fire,  the  antique  grace, 
You  will  not  find  them  anywhere. 
To-day  we  breathe  a  commonplace, 
Polemic,  scientific  air : 
We  strip  Illusion  of  her  veil  ; 
We  vivisect  the  nightingale 
To  probe  the  secret  of  his  note. 
The  Muse  in  alien  ways  remote 

Goes  wandering. 


DISCIPLINE 

IN  the  crypt  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
They  lay  there,  a  score  of  the  Dead  :        * 
They  could  hear  the  priest  at  his  prayers, 
And  the  litany  overhead. 

They  knew  when  the  great  crowd  stirred 
As  the  Host  was  lifted  on  high  ; 
And  they  smiled  in  the  dark  when  they  heard 
Some  light-footed  nun  trip  by. 


46  INTERLUDES 

Side  by  side  on  their  shelves 

For  years  and  years  they  lay ; 

And  those  who  misbehaved  themselves 

Had  their  coffin-plates  taken  away. 

Thus  is  the  legend  told 
In  black-letter  monkish  rhyme, 
Explaining  those  plaques  of  gold 
That  vanished  from  time  to  time ! 


DESTINY 

THREE    roses,   wan   as   moonlight   and   weighed 

down 

Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a  crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a  town. 

The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at  rest, 
Like   flower   on  flower,  that  night,  on  Beauty's 
breast. 

/ 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's  hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief  made  wild, 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead  child. 


INTERLUDES  47 

NAMELESS  PAIN 

IN  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 
Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose : 
Oh  for  the  golden,  golden  wind, 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes  ! 
Breaking  the  buds  and  bending  the  grass, 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose. 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 
Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to-day 
And  scatter  its  nameless  pain  ! 


HEREDITY 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Cromwell  stamp, 
With  sword  and  psalm-book  by  his  side, 
At  home  alike  in  church  and  camp : 
Austere  he  lived,  and  smileless  died. 

But  she,  a  creature  soft  and  fine  — 

From  Spain,  some  say,  some  say  from  France  ; 


48  INTERLUDES 

Within  her  veins  leapt  blood  like  wine  — 
She  led  her  Roundhead  lord  a  dance ! 

In  Grantham  church  they  lie  asleep ; 
Just  where,  the  verger  may  not  know. 
Strange  that  two  hundred  years  should  keep 
The  old  ancestral  fires  aglow ! 

In  me  these  two  have  met  again ; 
To  each  my  nature  owes  a  part : 
To  one,  the  cool  and  reasoning  brain, 
To  one,  the  quick,  unreasoning  heart. 


IDENTITY 

SOMEWHERE  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space 
In  Twilight-land  —  in  No-man's-land  — 

Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  cried  one  a-gape, 
Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 

"I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night !  " 


INTERLUDES  49 

LYRICS  AND  EPICS 

I  WOULD  be  the  Lyric 
Ever  on  the  lip, 
Rather  than  the  Epic 
Memory  lets  slip. 
I  would  be  the  diamond 
At  my  lady's  ear, 
Rather  than  the  June-rose 
Worn  but  once  a  year. 


A  WINTER  PIECE 

Sous  le  voile  qui  vous  protege, 
Defiant  les  regards  jaloux, 
Si  vous  sortez  par  cette  neige, 
Redoutez  vos  pieds  andalous. 

TH&OPHILB  GAUTIER 

BENEATH  the  heavy  veil  you  wear, 
Shielded  from  jealous  eyes  you  go ; 
But  of  your  pretty  feet  have  care 
If  you  should  venture  through  the  snow. 

Howe'er  you  tread,  a  tiny  mould 
Betrays  that  light  foot  all  the  same  ; 


50  INTERLUDES 

Upon  this  glistening,  snowy  fold 
At  every  step  it  signs  your  name. 

Thus  guided,  one  might  come  too  close 
Upon  the  slyly-hidden  nest 
Where  Psyche,  with  her  cheek's  cold  rose, 
On  Love's  warm  bosom  lies  at  rest. 


KRISS  KRINGLE 

(Written  in  a  child's  album) 

JUST  as  the  moon  was  fading  amid  her  misty  rings, 
And  every  stocking  was  stuffed  with  childhood's 

precious  things, 
Old  Kriss  Kringle  looked  round,  and  saw  on  the 

elm-tree  bough, 

High-hung,  an  oriole's  nest,  silent  and  empty  now. 
"Quite  like  a  stocking,"  he  laughed,  "pinned  up 

there  on  the  tree ! 
Little  I  thought  the  birds  expected  a  present  from 

me!" 
Then  old  Kriss  Kringle,  who  loves  a  joke  as  well 

as  the  best, 
Dropped  a  handful  of  flakes  in  the  oriole's  empty 

nest. 


INTERLUDES  5* 

RENCONTRE 

TOILING  across  the  Mer  de  Glace, 

I  thought  of,  longed  for  thee ; 

What  miles  between  us  stretched,  alas!  — 

What  miles  of  land  and  sea ! 

My  foe,  undreamed  of,  at  my  side 
Stood  suddenly,  like  Fate. 
For  those  who  love,  the  world  is  wide, 
But  not  for  those  who  hate. 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR 

THE  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes ; 
Wild-flowers  are  fringing  the  dusty  lanes, 
The  swallows  go  darting  through  fragrant  rains, 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden  —  it  snows. 

Dear  Heart,  our  lives  so  happily  flow, 
So  lightly  we  heed  the  flying  hours, 
We  only  know  Winter  is  gone  —  by  the  flowers, 

We  only  know  Winter  is  come  —  by  the  snow. 


52  INTERLUDES 

LOST  ART 


WHEN  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart 
I  made  sad  songs  with  easy  art : 
Now  I  am  sad,  and  no  more  young, 
My  sorrow  cannot  find  a  tongue. 


ii 

Pray,  Muses,  since  I  may  not  sing 
Of  Death  or  any  grievous  thing, 
Teach  me  some  joyous  strain,  that  I 
May  mock  my  youth's  hypocrisy ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD 


PROEM 


You  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no 
Our  many-colored  songs  are  wrought 
Upon  the  cunning  loom  of  thought 
We  weave  our  fancies,  so  and  so. 


ii 


The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 
Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  weaves 
A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves, 
With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 


in 

With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold : 
When  woven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 
Nor  time  can  make  its  colors  fade. 

53 


54  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

/ 

AN  ARAB  WELCOME 

BECAUSE  thou  com'st,  a  weary  guest, 
Unto  my  tent,  I  bid  thee  rest. 
This  cruse  of  oil,  this  skin  of  wine, 
These  tamarinds  and  dates  are  thine ; 
And  while  thou  eatest,  Medjid,  there, 
Shall  bathe  the  heated  nostrils  of  thy  mare. 

Illah  il'  Allah  !     Even  so 
An  Arab  chieftain  treats  a  foe, 
Holds  him  as  one  without  a  fault 
Who  breaks  his  bread  and  tastes  his  salt ; 
And,  in  fair  battle,  strikes  him  dead 
With  the  same  pleasure  that  he  gives  him  bread, 


A  TURKISH  LEGEND 

A  CERTAIN  Pasha,  dead  these  thousand  years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden  tears, 

And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate 
Deeply  engraven,  Only  God  is  great. 

So  those  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice, 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  55 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbacan, 
Saluted  each  returning  caravan. 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.     Every  gust 
Lifts,  with  dead   leaves,  the   unknown   Pasha's 
dust. 

And  all  is  ruin  —  save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written,  Only  God  is  great. 


THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS 

KIND  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Remembered  me  with  such  a  gracious  hand, 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  haughty  bosom  of  a  queen. 
No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast ; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turbaned  slave  shall  envy  and  adore. 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar  brought  from  Lebanon, 

Once  borne,  perchance,  by  some  pale  monk  who 

trod 

The  desert  to  Jerusalem  and  his  God. 
Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 


56  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Each  with  deep  meaning  to  our  human  needs, 

Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 

By  tears,  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom,  and  death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me. 

The  waning  Crescent  lacks  divinity  : 

It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 

Of  women  shut  in  dim  seraglios. 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me, 

And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom  — 

The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb. 


THE  UNFORGIVEN 

NEAR  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  picture  jewels  could 
not  buy  from  me  : 

'Tis  a  Siren,  a  brown  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed  dra- 
pery, 

Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 
sea. 

In  the  east,  the  rose  of  morning  seems  as  if  't  would 

blossom  soon, 
But  it  never,  never  blossoms,  in  this  picture ;  and 

the  moon 
Never  ceases  to  be  crescent,  and  the  June  is  always 

June. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  57 

And  the  heavy-branched   banana  never  yields  its 

creamy  fruit ; 
In  the  citron-trees  are  nightingales  forever  stricken 

mute; 
And  the  Siren  sits,  her  fingers  on  the  pulses  of  the 

lute. 

In  the  hushes  of  the  midnight,  when  the  heliotropes 
grow  strong 

With  the  dampness,  I  hear  music  —  hear  a  quiet, 
plaintive  song  — 

A  most  sad,  melodious  utterance,  as  of  some  im- 
mortal wrong ; 

Like   the   pleading,  oft  repeated,  of  a  Soul   that 

pleads  in  vain, 
Of  a  damned  Soul  repentant,  that  would  fain  be 

pure  again !  — 
And  I  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  music  of  her 

pain. 

And  whence  comes  this  mournful  music  ?  —  whence, 

unless  it  chance  to  be 
From  the  Siren,  the  brown  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed 

drapery, 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 

sea. 


58  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

DRESSING  THE   BRIDE 

A   FRAGMENT 

So,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought 
The  broidered  raiment  for  her  wear, 
The  misty  izar  from  Mosul, 
The  pearls  and  opals  for  her  hair, 
The  slippers  for  her  supple  feet, 
(Two  radiant  crescent  moons  they  were,) 
And  lavender,  and  spikenard  sweet, 
And  attars,  nedd,  and  richest  musk. 
When  they  had  finished  dressing  her, 
(The  Eye  of  Dawn,  the  Heart's  Desire !) 
Like  one  pale  star  against  the  dusk, 
A  single  diamond  on  her  brow 
Trembled  with  its  imprisoned  fire. 


TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN 


O  CEASE,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest ! 
Too  soon  the  hateful  light  is  born ; 
Henceforth  let  day  be  counted  night, 
And  midnight  called  the  morn. 


"DRESSING    THE    BRIDE."     Page  58. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  59 

O  cease,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest ! 
A  tearful,  languid  spirit  lies, 
Like  the  dim  scent  in  violets, 
In  beauty's  gentle  eyes. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  sweet  sound 
That  quickens  tears.     O  music,  lest 
We  weep  with  thy  strange  sorrow,  cease ! 
Be  still,  and  let  us  rest. 


ii 

Ah  !  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

Oh,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 


60  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Theyp  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  slumber  in  his  heart  by  night. 


TIGER-LILIES 

I  LIKE  not  lady-slippers, 
Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 
Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 
Red,  or  white  as  snow ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 
That  in  our  garden  grow. 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender ; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine  ; 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 

They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful  — 

They  are  Circassian  women, 

The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks. 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 
I  sit  beside  the  window 
And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 
How  they  burn  and  glow  ! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  61 

Oh  for  the  burning  lilies, 
The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 
That  in  our  garden  grow ! 


THE  SULTANA 

IN  the  draperies'  purple  gloom, 
In  the  gilded  chamber  she  stands, 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bosom's  bloom, 
And  the  white  of  her  jewelled  hands. 

Each  wandering  wind  that  blows 

By  the  lattice,  seems  to  bear 

From  her  parted  lips  the  scent  of  the  rose, 

And  the  jasmine  from  her  hair. 

Her  dark-browed  odalisques  lean 

To  the  fountain's  feathery  rain, 

And  a  paroquet,  by  the  broidered  screen, 

Dangles  its  silvery  chain. 

But  pallid,  luminous,  cold, 
Like  a  phantom  she  fills  the  place, 
Sick  to  the  heart,  in  that  cage  of  gold, 
With  her  sumptuous  disgrace. 


62  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 

AT  Haroun's  court  it  chanced,  upon  a  time, 
An  Arab  poet  made  this  pleasant  rhyme : 

"The    new   moon   is   a   horseshoe,   wrought  of 

God, 
Wherewith  the  Sultan's  stallion  shall  be  shod." 

On  hearing  this,  the  Sultan  smiled,  and  gave 
The  man  a  gold-piece.     Sing  again,  O  slave  ! 

Above  his  lute  the  happy  singer  bent, 
And  turned  another  gracious  compliment. 

And,  as  before,  the  smiling  Sultan  gave 
The  man  a  sekkah.     Sing  again,  O  slave/ 

Again  the  verse  came,  fluent  as  a  rill 
That  wanders,  silver-footed,  down  a  hill. 

The  Sultan,  listening,  nodded  as  before, 
Still  gave  the  gold,  and  still  demanded  more. 

The  nimble  fancy  that  had  climbed  so  high 
Grew  weary  with  its  climbing  by  and  by : 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  63 

Strange   discords   rose;    the   sense   went   quite 

amiss ; 
The  singer's  rhymes  refused  to  meet  and  kiss : 

Invention  flagged,  the  lute  had  got  unstrung, 
And  twice  he  sang  the  song  already  sung. 

The  Sultan,  furious,  called  a  mute,  and  said, 
O  Musta,  straightway  whip  me  off  his  head! 

Poets !  not  in  Arabia  alone 

You  get  beheaded  when  your  skill  is  gone. 


LATAKIA 


WHEN  all  the  panes  are  hung  with  frost, 
Wild  wizard-work  of  silver  lace, 
I  draw  my  sofa  on  the  rug 
Before  the  ancient  chimney-place. 
Upon  the  painted  tiles  are  mosques 
And  minarets,  and  here  and  there 
A  blind  muezzin  lifts  his  hands 
And  calls  the  faithful  unto  prayer. 
Folded  in  idle,  twilight  dreams, 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

I  hear  the  hemlock  chirp  and  sing 

As  if  within  its  ruddy  core 

It  held  the  happy  heart  of  Spring. 

Ferdousi  never  sang  like  that, 

Nor  Saadi  grave,  nor  Hafiz  gay  : 

I  lounge,  and  blow  white  rings  of  smoke, 

And  watch  them  rise  and  float  away. 


The  curling  wreaths  like  turbans  seem 
Of  silent  slaves  that  come  and  go  — 
Or  Viziers,  packed  with  craft  and  crime, 
Whom  I  behead  from  time  to  time, 
With  pipe-stem,  at  a  single  blow. 

And  now  and  then  a  lingering  cloud 
Takes  gracious  form  at  my  desire, 
And  at  my  side  my  lady  stands, 
Unwinds  her  veil  with  snowy  hands  — 
A  shadowy  shape,  a  breath  of  fire  i 

O  Love,  if  you  were  only  here 
Beside  me  in  this  mellow  light, 
Though  all  the  bitter  winds  should  blow, 
And  all  the  ways  be  choked  with  snow, 
*T  would  be  a  true  Arabian  night  1 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  65 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN 

WHEN  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 

Even  before  he  gets  so  far 

As   the   place  where   the   clustered   palm-trees 

are, 

At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  flower  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room  — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots, 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes ; 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 
And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 
Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors ; 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pointed  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 


66  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Till  they  bloom  again ;  but,  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows, 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Glide  in  like  shapes  from  fairy-land, 
Making  a  sudden  mist  in  air 
Of  fleecy  veils  and  floating  hair 
And  white  arms  lifted.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes. 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  sandal-wood, 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
That 's  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light, 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan. 


WHEN    THE    SULTAN    GOES    TO    ISPAHAN."     Page  G6. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  67 

A  PRELUDE 

HASSAN  BEN  ABDUL  at  the  Ivory  Gate 

Of  Bagdad  sat  and  chattered  in  the  sun, 

Like  any  magpie  chattered  to  himself 

And  four  lank,  swarthy  Arab  boys  that  stopped 

A  gambling  game  with  peach-pits,  and  drew  near. 

Then  Iman  Khan,  the  friend  of  thirsty  souls, 

The  seller  of  pure  water,  ceased  his  cry, 

And  placed  his  water-skins  against  the  gate  — 

They  looked  so  like  him,  with  their  sallow  cheeks 

Puffed  out  like  Iman's.     Then  a  eunuch  came 

And  swung  a  pack  of  sweetmeats  from  his  head, 

And  stood  —  a  hideous  pagan  cut  in  jet. 

And  then  a  Jew,  whose  sandal-straps  were  red 

With  desert-dust,  limped,  cringing,  to  the  crowd ; 

He,  too,  would  listen  ;  and  close  after  him 

A  jeweller  that  glittered  like  his  shop. 

Then  two  blind  mendicants,  who  wished  to  go 

Six  diverse  ways  at  once,  came  stumbling  by, 

But  hearing  Hassan  chatter,  sat  them  down. 

And  if  the  Khalif  had  been  riding  near, 

He  would  have  paused  to  listen  like  the  rest, 

For  Hassan's  fame  was  ripe  in  all  the  East. 

From  white-walled  Cairo  to  far  Ispahan, 

From  Mecca  to  Damascus,  he  was  known, 

Hassan,  the  Arab  with  the  Singing  Heart. 


68  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

His  songs  were  sung  by  boatmen  on  the  Nile, 
By  Beddowee  maidens,  and  in  Tartar  camps, 
While  all  men  loved  him  as  they  loved  their  eyes 
And  when  he  spake,  the  wisest,  next  to  him, 
Was  he  who  listened.     And  thus  Hassan  sung. 
—  And  I,  a  stranger  lingering  in  Bagdad, 
Half  English  and  half  Arab,  by  my  beard  ! 
Caught  at  the  gilded  epic  as  it  grew, 
And  for  my  Christian  brothers  wrote  it  down. 


TO  HAFIZ 

THOUGH  gifts  like  thine  the  fates  gave  not  to 

me, 

One  thing,  O  Hafiz,  we  both  hold  in  fee  — 
Nay,  it  holds  us ;  for  when  the  June  wind  blows 
We  both  are  slaves  and  lovers  to  the  rose. 
In  vain  the  pale  Circassian  lily  shows 
Her  face  at  her  green  lattice,  and  in  vain 
The  violet  beckons,  with  unveiled  face  — 
The  bosom's  white,  the  lip's  light  purple  stain, 
These  touch  our  liking,  yet  no  passion  stir. 
But  when  the  rose  comes,  Hafiz  —  in  that  place 
Where  she  stands   smiling,   we   kneel    down   to 

her! 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  69 

AT  NIJNII-NOVGOROD 

"  A  CRAFTY  Persian  set  this  stone  ; 

A  dusk  Sultana  wore  it ; 
And  from  her  slender  finger,  sir, 
A  ruthless  Arab  tore  it. 

"  A  ruby,  like  a  drop  of  blood  — 
That  deep-in  tint  that  lingers 
And  seems  to  melt,  perchance  was  caught 
From  those  poor  mangled  fingers  ! 

"  A  spendthrift  got  it  from  the  knave, 

And  tossed  it,  like  a  blossom, 
That  night  into  a  dancing-girl's 
Accurst  and  balmy  bosom. 

"  And  so  it  went.     One  day  a  Jew 

At  Cairo  chanced  to  spy  it 
Amid  a  one-eyed  peddler's  pack, 
And  did  not  care  to  buy  it  — 

"  Yet  bought  it  all  the  same.     You  see, 

The  Jew  he  knew  a  jewel. 
He  bought  it  cheap  to  sell  it  dear : 
The  ways  of  trade  are  cruel. 


70  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

"  But  I  —  be  Allah's  all  the  praise  !  — 

Such  avarice,  I  scoff  it ! 
If  I  buy  cheap,  why,  I  sell  cheap, 
Content  with  modest  profit. 

"This  ring  —  such  chasing!  look,  milord, 

What  workmanship  !     By  Heaven, 
The  price  I  name  you  makes  the  thing 
As  if  the  thing  were  given  ! 

"  A  stone  without  a  flaw !     A  queen 

Might  not  disdain  to  wear  it. 
Three  hundred  roubles  buys  the  stone ; 
No  kopeck  less,  I  swear  it !  " 

Thus  Hassan,  holding  up  the  ring 

To  me,  no  eager  buyer.  — 
A  hundred  roubles  was  not  much 

To  pay  so  sweet  a  liar ! 


THE  LAMENT  OF  EL  MOULOK 

WITHIN  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  mosque, 
Even  on  the  very  steps  of  St.  Sophia, 
He  lifted  up  his  voice  and  spoke  these  words, 
El  Moulok,  who  sang  naught  but  love-songs  once, 
And  now  was  crazed  because  his  son  was  dead : 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  71 

O  ye  who  leave 

Your  slippers  at  the  portal,  as  is  meet, 

Give  heed  an  instant  ere  ye  bow  in  prayer. 

Ages  ago, 

Allah,  grown  weary  of  His  myriad  worlds, 
Would  one  star  more  to  hang  against  the  blue. 

Then  of  men's  bones, 

Millions  on  millions,  did  He  build  the  earth  ; 

Of  women's  tears, 

Down  falling  through  the  night,  He  made  the  sea  ; 

Of  sighs  and  sobs 

He  made  the  winds  that  surge  about  the  globe. 

Where'er  ye  tread, 

Ye  tread  on  dust  that  once  was  living  man. 

The  mist  and  rain 

Are  tears  that  first  from  human  eyelids  fell. 

The  unseen  winds 

Breathe  endless  lamentation  for  the  dead. 

Not  so  the  ancient  tablets  told  the  tale, 
Not  so  the  Koran  !     This  was  blasphemy, 


72  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

And  they  that  heard  El  Moulok  dragged  him  thence, 
Even  from  the  very  steps  of  St.  Sophia, 
And  loaded  him  with  triple  chains  of  steel, 
And  cast  him  in  a  dungeon. 

None  the  less 

Do  women's  tears  fall  ceaseless  day  and  night, 
And  none  the  less  do  mortals  faint  and  die 
And  turn  to  dust ;  and  every  wind  that  blows 
About  the  globe  seems  heavy  with  the  grief 
Of  those  who  sorrow,  or  have  sorrowed,  here. 
Yet  none  the  less  is  Allah  the  Most  High, 
The  Clement,  the  Compassionate.     He  sees 
Where  we  are  blind,  and  hallowed  be  His  Name ! 


NOURMADEE 

THE   POET    MIRTZY  MOHAMMED-ALI    TO  HIS    FRIEND 
ABOU-HASSEM    IN  ALGEZIRAS 

O  HASSEM,  greeting  !     Peace  be  thine  ! 
With  thee  and  thine  be  all  things  well ! 
Give  refuge  to  these  words  of  mine. 
The  strange  mischance  which  late  befell 
Thy  servant  must  have  reached  thine  ear ; 
Rumor  has  flung  it  far  and  wide, 
With  dark  additions,  as  I  hear. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  73 

When  They-Say  speaks,  what  ills  betide ! 
So  lend  no  credence,  O  my  Friend, 
To  scandals,  fattening  as  they  fly. 
Love  signs  and  seals  the  roll  I  send  : 
Read  thou  the  truth  with  lenient  eye. 


IN  Yussuf's  garden  at  Tangier 
This  happened.     In  his  cool  kiosk 
We  sat  partaking  of  his  cheer  — 
Thou  know'st  that  garden  by  the  Mosque 
Of  Irma ;  stately  palms  are  there, 
And  silver  fish  in  marble  tanks, 
And  scents  of  jasmine  in  the  air  — 
We  sat  and  feasted,  with  due  thanks 
To  Allah,  till  the  pipes  were  brought ; 
And  no  one  spoke,  for  Pleasure  laid 
Her  finger  on  the  lips  of  Thought. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  came  a  maid, 
With  tambourine,  to  dance  for  us  — 
Allah  il'  Allah  !  it  was  she, 
The  slave-girl  from  the  Bosphorus 
That  Yiissuf  purchased  recently. 

Long  narrow  eyes,  as  black  as  black  1 
And  melting,  like  the  stars  in  June ; 
Tresses  of  night  drawn  smoothly  back 
From  eyebrows  like  the  crescent  moon. 
She  paused  an  instant  with  bowed  head, 


74  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

Then,  at  a  motion  of  her  wrist, 

A  veil  of  gossamer  outspread 

And  wrapped  her  in  a  silver  mist. 

Her  tunic  was  of  Tiflis  green 

Shot  through  with  many  a  starry  speck  j 

The  zone  that  clasped  it  might  have  been 

A  collar  for  a  cygnet's  neck. 

None  of  the  thirty  charms  she  lacked 

Demanded  for  perfection's  grace  ; 

Charm  upon  charm  in  her  was  packed 

Like  rose  leaves  in  a  costly  vase. 

Full  in  the  lanterns'  colored  light 

She  seemed  a  thing  of  Paradise. 

I  knew  not  if  I  saw  aright, 

Or  if  my  vision  told  me  lies. 

Those  lanterns  spread  a  cheating  glare ; 

Such  stains  they  threw  from  bough  and  vine 

As  if  the  slave-boys,  here  and  there, 

Had  spilled  a  jar  of  brilliant  wine. 

And  then  the  fountain's  drowsy  fall, 

The  burning  aloes'  heavy  scent, 

The  night,  the  place,  the  hour  —  they  all 

Were  full  of  subtle  blandishment. 

Much  had  I  heard  of  Nourmadee  — 
The  name  of  this  fair  slenderness  — 
Whom  Yiissuf  kept  with  lock  and  key 
Because  her  beauty  wrought  distress 
In  all  men's  hearts  that  gazed  on  it ; 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  75 

And  much  I  marvelled  why,  this  night, 

Yussuf  should  have  the  little  wit 

To  lift  her  veil  for  our  delight. 

For  though  the  other  guests  were  old  — 

Grave,  worthy  merchants,  three  from  Fez 

(These  mostly  dealt  in  dyes  and  gold), 

Cloth  merchants  two,  from  Mekinez  — 

Though  they  were  old  and  gray  and  dry, 

Forgetful  of  their  youth's  desires, 

My  case  was  different,  for  I 

Still  knew  the  touch  of  springtime  fires. 

And  straightway  as  I  looked  on  her 

I  bit  my  lip,  grew  ill  at  ease, 

And  in  my  veins  was  that  strange  stir 

Which  clothes  with  bloom  the  almond-trees. 

O  Shape  of  blended  fire  and  snow ! 
Each  clime  to  her  some  spell  had  lent  — 
The  North  her  cold,  the  South  her  glow, 
Her  languors  all  the  Orient. 
Her  scarf  was  as  the  cloudy  fleece 
The  moon  draws  round  its  loveliness, 
That  so  its  beauty  may  increase 
The  more  in  being  seen  the  less. 
And  as  she  moved,  and  seemed  to  float  — 
So  floats  a  swan  !  —  in  sweet  unrest, 
A  string  of  sequins  at  her  throat 
Went  clink  and  clink  against  her  breast 
And  what  did  some  birth-fairy  do 


76  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

But  set  a  mole,  a  golden  dot, 

Close  to  her  lip  —  to  pierce  men  through ! 

How  could  I  look  and  love  her  not  ? 

Yet  heavy  was  my  heart  as  stone, 
For  well  I  knew  that  love  was  vain ; 
To  love  the  thing  one  may  not  own  !  — 
I  saw  how  all  my  peace  was  slain. 
Coffers  of  ingots  Yussuf  had, 
Houses  on  land,  and  ships  at  sea, 
And  I  —  alas  !  was  I  gone  mad, 
To  cast  my  eyes  on  Nourmadee ! 
I  strove  to  thrust  her  from  my  mind, 
I  bent  my  brows,  and  turned  away, 
And  wished  that  Fate  had  struck  me  blind 
Ere  I  had  come  to  know  that  day. 
I  fixed  my  thoughts  on  this  and  that ; 
Assessed  the  worth  of  Yussuf  s  ring ; 
Counted  the  colors  in  the  mat  — 
And  then  a  bird  began  to  sing, 
A  bulbul  hidden  in  a  bough. 
From  time  to  time  it  loosed  a  strain 
Of  moonlit  magic  that,  somehow, 
Brought  solace  to  my  troubled  brain. 

But  when  the  girl  once,  creeping  close, 
Half  stooped,  and  looked  me  in  the  face, 
My  reason  fled,  and  I  arose 
And  cried  to  Yussuf,  from  my  place : 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  77 

"  O  Yussuf,  give  to  me  this  girl ! 
You  are  so  rich  and  I  so  poor ! 
You  would  not  miss  one  little  pearl 
Like  that  from  out  your  countless  store  ! " 

" '  This  girl '  ?     What  girl  ?     No  girl  is  here !  " 
Cried  Yussuf  with  his  eyes  agleam ; 

"  Now,  by  the  Prophet,  it  is  clear 
Our  friend  has  had  a  pleasant  dream  !" 
(And  then  it  seems  that  I  awoke, 
And  stared  around,  no  little  dazed 
At  finding  naught  of  what  I  spoke : 
Each  guest  sat  silent  and  amazed.) 

Then  Yussuf  —  of  all  mortal  men 
This  Yussuf  has  a  mocking  tongue  !  — 
Stood  at  my  side,  and  spoke  again : 
"  O  Mirtzy,  I  too  once  was  young. 
With  mandolin  or  dulcimer 
I  Ve  waited  many  a  midnight  through, 
Content  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  Her, 
And  have  my  turban  drenched  with  dew. 
By  Her  I  mean  some  slim  Malay, 
Some  Andalusian  with  her  fan 
(For  I  have  travelled  in  my  day), 
Or  some  swart  beauty  of  Soudan. 
No  Barmecide  was  I  to  fare 
On  fancy's  shadowy  wine  and  meat ; 
No  phantom  moulded  out  of  air 
Had  spells  to  lure  me  to  her  feet. 


78  CLOTH  OF  GOLD 

0  Mirtzy,  be  it  understood 

1  blame  you  not.     Your  sin  is  slight !  — 
You  fled  the  world  of  flesh  and  blood, 
And  loved  a  vision  of  the  night ! 
Sweeter  than  musk  such  visions  be 

As  come  to  poets  when  they  sleep ! 
You  dreamed  you  saw  fair  Nourmadee  ? 
Go  to  !  it  is  a  pearl  I  keep !  " 

By  Allah,  but  his  touch  was  true ! 
And  I  was  humbled  to  the  dust 
That  I  in  those  grave  merchants'  view 
Should  seem  a  thing  no  man  might  trust. 
For  he  of  creeping  things  is  least 
Who,  while  he  breaks  of  friendship's  bread, 
Betrays  the  giver  of  the  feast. 

"  Good  friends,  I  'm  not  that  man  !  "  I  said. 

"  O  Yiissuf,  shut  not  Pardon's  gate ! 
The  words  I  spake  I  no  wise  meant. 
Who  holds  the  threads  of  Time  and  Fate 
Sends  dreams.     I  dreamt  the  dream  he  sent. 
I  am  as  one  that  from  a  trance 
Awakes  confused,  and  reasons  ill ; 
The  world  of  men  invites  his  glance, 
The  world  of  shadows  claims  him  still. 
I  see  those  lights  among  the  leaves, 
Yourselves  I  see,  sedate  and  wise, 
And  yet  some  finer  sense  perceives 
A  presence  that  eludes  the  eyes. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD  79 

Of  what  is  gone  there  seems  to  stay 
Some  subtlety,  to  mock  my  pains : 
So,  when  a  rose  is  borne  away, 
The  fragrance  of  the  rose  remains  !  " 
Then  Yiissuf  laughed,  Abdallah  leered, 
And  Melik  coughed  behind  his  hand, 
And  lean  Ben-Auda  stroked  his  beard 
As  who  should  say,  "  We  understand  !  " 
And  though  the  fault  was  none  of  mine, 
As  I  explained  and  made  appear, 
Since  then  I  Ve  not  been  asked  to  dine 
In  Yiissuf's  garden  at  Tangier. 


FAREWELL,  O  Hassem !     Peace  be  thine  ! 
With  thee  and  thine  be  always  Peace  ! 
To  virtue  let  thy  steps  incline, 
And  may  thy  shadow  not  decrease  ! 
Get  wealth  —  wealth  makes  the  dullard's  jest 
Seem  witty  where  true  wit  falls  flat ; 
Do  good,  for  goodness  still  is  best  — 
But  then  the  Koran  tells  thee  that. 
Know  Patience  here,  and  later  Bliss ; 
Grow  wise,  trust  woman,  doubt  not  man  ; 
And  when  thou  dinest  out  —  mark  this  — 
Beware  of  wines  from  Ispahan  ! 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL 
BOOK  ETC. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

A.  D.   1200 

THE  Friar  Jerome,  for  some  slight  sin, 

Done  in  his  youth,  was  struck  with  woe. 
"When  I  am  dead,"  quoth  Friar  Jerome, 
"  Surely,  I  think  my  soul  will  go 

Shuddering  through  the  darkened  spheres, 

Down  to  eternal  fires  below  ! 

I  shall  not  dare  from  that  dread  place 

To  lift  mine  eyes  to  Jesus'  face, 

Nor  Mary's,  as  she  sits  adored 

At  the  feet  of  Christ  the  Lord. 

Alas  !  December 's  all  too  brief 

For  me  to  hope  to  wipe  away 

The  memory  of  my  sinful  May  !  " 

And  Friar  Jerome  was  full  of  grief 

That  April  evening,  as  he  lay 

On  the  straw  pallet  in  his  cell. 

He  scarcely  heard  the  curfew-bell 

81 


82     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

Calling  the  brotherhood  to  prayer ; 
But  he  arose,  for  't  was  his  care 
Nightly  to  feed  the  hungry  poor 
That  crowded  to  the  Convent  door. 

His  choicest  duty  it  had  been : 
But  this  one  night  it  weighed  him  down. 
"  What  work  for  an  immortal  soul, 
To  feed  and  clothe  some  lazy  clown  ? 
Is  there  no  action  worth  my  mood, 
No  deed  of  daring,  high  and  pure, 
That  shall,  when  I  am  dead,  endure, 
A  well-spring  of  perpetual  good  ? " 

And  straight  he  thought  of  those  great  tomes 
With  clamps  of  gold  —  the  Convent's  boast  — 
How  they  endured,  while  kings  and  realms 
Passed  into  darkness  and  were  lost ; 
How  they  had  stood  from  age  to  age, 
Clad  in  their  yellow  vellum-mail, 
'Gainst  which  the  Paynim's  godless  rage, 
The  Vandal's  fire,  could  naught  avail : 
Though  heathen  sword-blows  fell  like  hail, 
Though  cities  ran  with  Christian  blood, 
Imperishable  they  had  stood  ! 
They  did  not  seem  like  books  to  him, 
But  Heroes,  Martyrs,  Saints  —  themselves 
The  things  they  told  of,  not  mere  books 
Ranged  grimly  on  the  oaken  shelves. 


FRIAR   JEROME."     Page  82. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     83 

To  those  dim  alcoves,  far  withdrawn, 
He  turned  with  measured  steps  and  slow, 
Trimming  his  lantern  as  he  went ; 
And  there,  among  the  shadows,  bent 
Above  one  ponderous  folio, 
With  whose  miraculous  text  were  blent 
Seraphic  faces  :  Angels,  crowned 
With  rings  of  melting  amethyst ; 
Mute,  patient  Martyrs,  cruelly  bound 
To  blazing  fagots  ;  here  and  there, 
Some  bold,  serene  Evangelist, 
Or  Mary  in  her  sunny  hair ; 
And  here  and  there  from  out  the  words 
A  brilliant  tropic  bird  took  flight ; 
And  through  the  margins  many  a  vine 
Went  wandering  —  roses,  red  and  white, 
Tulip,  wind-flower,  and  columbine 
Blossomed.     To  his  believing  mind 
These  things  were  real,  and  the  wind, 
Blown  through  the  mullioned  window,  took 
Scent  from  the  lilies  in  the  book. 

"  Santa  Maria !  "  cried  Friar  Jerome, 
"  Whatever  man  illumined  this, 
Though  he  were  steeped  heart-deep  in  sin, 
Was  worthy  of  unending  bliss, 
And  no  doubt  hath  it !     Ah  !  dear  Lord, 
Might  I  so  beautify  Thy  Word  ! 
What  sacristan,  the  convents  through, 


84     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

Transcribes  with  such  precision  ?  who 
Does  such  initials  as  I  do  ? 
Lo !  I  will  gird  me  to  this  work, 
And  save  me,  ere  the  one  chance  slips. 
On  smooth,  clean  parchment  I  '11  engross 
The  Prophet's  fell  Apocalypse ; 
And  as  I  write  from  day  to  day, 
Perchance  my  sins  will  pass  away." 

So  Friar  Jerome  began  his  Book. 
From  break  of  dawn  till  curfew-chime 
He  bent  above  the  lengthening  page, 
Like  some  rapt  poet  o'er  his  rhyme. 
He  scarcely  paused  to  tell  his  beads, 
Except  at  night ;  and  then  he  lay 
And  tossed,  unrestful,  on  the  straw, 
Impatient  for  the  coming  day  — 
Working  like  one  who  feels,  perchance, 
That,  ere  the  longed-for  goal  be  won, 
Ere  Beauty  bare  her  perfect  breast, 
Black  Death  may  pluck  him  from  the  sun. 
At  intervals  the  busy  brook, 
Turning  the  mill-wheel,  caught  his  ear ; 
And  through  the  grating  of  the  cell 
He  saw  the  honeysuckles  peer, 
And  knew  't  was  summer,  that  the  sheep 
In  fragrant  pastures  lay  asleep, 
And  felt,  that,  somehow,  God  was  near. 
In  his  green  pulpit  on  the  elm, 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     85 

The  robin,  abbot  of  that  wood, 

Held  forth  by  times  ;  and  Friar  Jerome 

Listened,  and  smiled,  and  understood. 

While  summer  wrapped  the  blissful  land 
What  joy  it  was  to  labor  so, 
To  see  the  long-tressed  Angels  grow 
Beneath  the  cunning  of  his  hand, 
Vignette  and  tail-piece  subtly  wrought ! 
And  little  recked  he  of  the  poor 
That  missed,  him  at  the  Convent  door ; 
Or,  thinking  of  them,  put  the  thought 
Aside.     "  I  feed  the  souls  of  men 
Henceforth,  and  not  their  bodies !  " —  yet 
Their  sharp,  pinched  features,  now  and  then, 
Stole  in  between  him  and  his  Book, 
And  filled  him  with  a  vague  regret. 

Now  on  that  region  fell  a  blight : 
The  grain  grew  cankered  in  its  sheath ; 
And  from  the  verdurous  uplands  rolled 
A  sultry  vapor  fraught  with  death  — 
A  poisonous  mist,  that,  like  a  pall, 
Hung  black  and  stagnant  over  all. 
Then  came  the  sickness  —  the  malign, 
Green-spotted  terror  called  the  Pest, 
That  took  the  light  from  loving  eyes, 
And  made  the  young  bride's  gentle  breast 
A  fatal  pillow.     Ah  !  the  woe, 


86     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

The  crime,  the  madness  that  befell ! 
In  one  short  night  that  vale  became 
More  foul  than  Dante's  inmost  hell. 
Men  cursed  their  wives ;  and  mothers  left 
Their  nursing  babes  alone  to  die, 
And  wantoned,  singing,  through  the  streets, 
With  shameless  brow  and  frenzied  eye  ; 
And  senseless  clowns,  not  fearing  God  — 
Such  power  the  spotted  fever  had  — 
Razed  Cragwood  Castle  on  the  hill, 
Pillaged  the  wine-bins,  and  went  mad. 
And  evermore  that  dreadful  pall 
Of  mist  hung  stagnant  over  all : 
By  day,  a  sickly  light  broke  through 
The  heated  fog,  on  town  and  field ; 
By  night,  the  moon,  in  anger,  turned 
Against  the  earth  its  mottled  shield. 

Then  from  the  Convent,  two  and  two, 
The  Prior  chanting  at  their  head, 
The  monks  went  forth  to  shrive  the  sick, 
And  give  the  hungry  grave  its  dead  — 
Only  Jerome,  he  went  not  forth, 
But  muttered  in  his  dusty  nook, 
"Let  come  what  will,  I  must  illume 
The  last  ten  pages  of  my  Book  !  " 
He  drew  his  stool  before  the  desk, 
And  sat  him  down,  distraught  and  wan, 
To  paint  his  daring  masterpiece, 
The  stately  figure  of  Saint  John. 


FRIAR  JEROME  S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     87 

He  sketched  the  head  with  pious  care, 
Laid  in  the  tint,  when,  powers  of  Grace ! 
He  found  a  grinning  Death's-head  there, 
And  not  the  grand  Apostle's  face ! 

Then  up  he  rose  with  one  long  cry : 
"  'T  is  Satan's  self  does  this,"  cried  he, 
"  Because  I  shut  and  barred  my  heart 
When  Thou  didst  loudest  call  to  me ! 

0  Lord,  Thou  know'st  the  thoughts  of  men, 
Thou  know'st  that  I  did  yearn  to  make 
Thy  Word  more  lovely  to  the  eyes 

Of  sinful  souls,  for  Christ  his  sake ! 
Nathless,  I  leave  the  task  undone : 

1  give  up  all  to  follow  Thee  — 
Even  like  him  who  gave  his  nets 
To  winds  and  waves  by  Galilee ! " 

Which  said,  he  closed  the  precious  Book 
In  silence,  with  a  reverent  hand ; 
And  drawing  his  cowl  about  his  face 
Went  forth  into  the  stricken  land. 
And  there  was  joy  in  Heaven  that  day  — 
More  joy  o'er  this  forlorn  old  friar 
Than  over  fifty  sinless  men 
Who  never  struggled  with  desire  ! 

What  deeds  he  did  in  that  dark  town, 
What  hearts  he  soothed  with  anguish  tornr 


88     FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

What  weary  ways  of  woe  he  trod, 
Are  written  in  the  Book  of  God, 
And  shall  be  read  at  Judgment  Morn. 
The  weeks  crept  on,  when,  one  still  day. 
God's  awful  presence  filled  the  sky, 
And  that  black  vapor  floated  by, 
And  lo !  the  sickness  passed  away. 
With  silvery  clang,  by  thorp  and  town, 
The  bells  made  merry  in  their  spires : 
O  God  !  to  think  the  Pest  is  flown  ! 
Men  kissed  each  other  on  the  street, 
And  music  piped  to  dancing  feet 
The  livelong  night,  by  roaring  fires  ! 

Then  Friar  Jerome,  a  wasted  shape  — 
For  he  had  taken  the  Plague  at  last  — 
Rose  up,  and  through  the  happy  town, 
And  through  the  wintry  woodlands,  passed 
Into  the  Convent.     What  a  gloom 
Sat  brooding  in  each  desolate  room ! 
What  silence  in  the  corridor ! 
For  of  that  long,  in  numerous  train 
Which  issued  forth  a  month  before 
Scarce  twenty  had  come  back  again  ! 

Counting  his  rosary  step  by  step, 
With  a  forlorn  and  vacant  air, 
Like  some  unshriven  churchyard  thing, 
The  Friar  crawled  up  the  mouldy  stair 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK     89 

To  his  damp  cell,  that  he  might  look 
Once  more  on  his  beloved  Book. 

And  there  it  lay  upon  the  stand, 
Open  !  —  he  had  not  left  it  so. 
He  grasped  it,  with  a  cry  ;  for,  lo ! 
He  saw  that  some  angelic  hand, 
While  he  was  gone,  had  finished  it ! 
There  't  was  complete,  as  he  had  planned ; 
There,  at  the  end,  stood  jFtntfli,  writ 
And  gilded  as  no  man  could  do  — 
Not  even  that  pious  anchoret, 
Bilfrid,  the  wonderful,  nor  yet 
The  miniatore  Ethelwold, 
Nor  Durham's  Bishop,  who  of  old 
(England  still  hoards  the  priceless  leaves) 
Did  the  Four  Gospels  all  in  gold. 
And  Friar  Jerome  nor  spoke  nor  stirred, 
But,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  word, 
He  passed  from  sin  and  want  and  scorn ; 
And  suddenly  the  chapel-bells 
Rang  in  the  holy  Christmas-Morn. 

In  those  wild  wars  which  racked  the  land 
Since  then,  and  kingdoms  rent  in  twain, 
The  Friar's  Beautiful  Book  was  lost  — 
That  miracle  of  hand  and  brain  : 
Yet,  though  its  leaves  were  torn  and  tossed, 
The  volume  was  not  writ  in  vain ! 


90  MIANTOWONA 

MIANTOWONA 


LONG  ere  the  Pale  Face 

Crossed  the  Great  Water, 

Miantowona 

Passed,  with  her  beauty, 

Into  a  legend 

Pure  as  a  wild-flower 

Found  in  a  broken 

Ledge  by  the  seaside. 

Let  us  revere  them  — 
These  wildwood  legends, 
Born  of  the  camp-fire. 
Let  them  be  handed 
Down  to  our  children  — 
Richest  of  heirlooms. 
No  land  may  claim  them  .• 
They  are  ours  only, 
Like  our  grand  rivers, 
Like  our  vast  prairies, 
Like  our  dead  heroes. 


ii 

In  the  pine-forest, 
Guarded  by  shadows, 


MIANTOWONA  91 

Lieth  the  haunted 
Pond  of  the  Red  Men. 
Ringed  by  the  emerald 
Mountains,  it  lies  there 
Like  an  untarnished 
Buckler  of  silver, 
Dropped  in  that  valley 
By  the  Great  Spirit ! 
Weird  are  the  figures 
Traced  on  its  margins  — 
Vine-work  and  leaf-work, 
Down-drooping  fuchsias, 
Knots  of  sword-grasses, 
Moonlight  and  starlight, 
Clouds  scudding  northward. 
Sometimes  an  eagle 
Flutters  across  it ; 
Sometimes  a  single 
Star  on  its  bosom 
Nestles  till  morning. 

Far  in  the  ages, 

Miantowona, 

Rose  of  the  Hurons, 

Came  to  these  waters. 

Where  the  dank  greensward 

Slopes  to  the  pebbles, 

Miantowona 

Sat  in  her  anguish. 


92  MIANTOWONA 

Ice  to  her  maidens, 
Ice  to  the  chieftains, 
Fire  to  her  lover ! 
Here  he  had  won  her, 
Here  they  had  parted, 
Here  could  her  tears  flow. 
With  unwet  eyelash, 
Mian  to  won  a 
Nursed  her  old  father, 
Gray-eyed  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Soothed  his  complainings, 
Smiled  when  he  chid  her 
Vaguely  for  nothing  — 
He  was  so  weak  now, 
Like  a  shrunk  cedar 
White  with  the  hoar-frost. 
Sometimes  she  gently 
Linked  arms  with  maidens, 
Joined  in  their  dances  : 
Not  with  her  people, 
Not  in  the  wigwam, 
Wept  for  her  lover. 

Ah  !  who  was  like  him  ? 
Fleet  as  an  arrow, 
Strong  as  a  bison, 
Lithe  as  a  panther, 
Soft  as  the  south- wind, 


MIANTOWONA  93 

Who  was  like  Wawah  ? 
There  is  one  other 
Stronger  and  fleeter, 
Bearing  no  wampum, 
Wearing  no  war-paint, 
Ruler  of  councils, 
Chief  of  the  war-path  — 
Who  can  gainsay  him, 
Who  can  defy  him  ? 
His  is  the  lightning, 
His  is  the  whirlwind, 
Let  us  be  humble, 
We  are  but  ashes  — 
'T  is  the  Great  Spirit ! 

Ever  at  nightfall 
Miantowona 
Strayed  from  the  lodges, 
Passed  through  the  shadows 
Into  the  forest : 
There  by  the  pond-side 
Spread  her  black  tresses 
Over  her  forehead. 
Sad  is  the  loon's  cry 
Heard  in  the  twilight ; 
Sad  is  the  night-wind, 
Moaning  and  moaning ; 
Sadder  the  stifled 
Sob  of  a  widow. 


94  MIANTOWONA 

Low  on  the  pebbles 
Murmured  the  water : 
Often  she  fancied 
It  was  young  Wawah 
Playing  the  reed-flute. 
Sometimes  a  dry  branch 
Snapped  in  the  forest : 
Then  she  rose,  startled, 
Ruddy  as  sunrise, 
Warm  for  his  coming ! 
But  when  he  came  not, 
Back  through  the  darkness, 
Half  broken-hearted, 
Miantowona 
Went  to  her  people. 

When  an  old  oak  dies, 
First  't  is  the  tree-tops, 
Then  the  low  branches, 
Then  the  gaunt  stem  goes  : 
So  fell  Tawanda, 
Oldest  of  Hurons, 
Chief  of  the  chieftains. 

Miantowona 
Wept  not,  but  softly 
Closed  the  sad  eyelids  ; 
With  her  own  fingers 


MIANTOWONA  95 

Fastened  the  deer-skin 
Over  his  shoulders ; 
Then  laid  beside  him 
Ash-bow  and  arrows, 
Pipe-bowl  and  wampum, 
Dried  corn  and  bear-meat  — 
All  that  was  needful 
On  the  long  journey. 
Thus  old  Tawanda 
Went  to  the  hunting 
Grounds  of  the  Red  Man. 
Then,  as  the  dirges 
Rose  from  the  village, 
Miantowona 

Stole  from  the  mourners, 
Stole  through  the  cornfields, 
Passed  like  a  phantom 
Into  the  shadows 
Through  the  pine  forest. 

One  who  had  watched  her  — 
It  was  Nahoho, 
Loving  her  vainly  — 
Saw,  as  she  passed  him, 
That  in  her  features 
Made  his  stout  heart  quail. 
He  could  but  follow. 
Quick  were  her  footsteps, 


96  MIANTOWONA 

Light  as  a  snowflake, 
Leaving  no  traces 
On  the  white  clover. 

Like  a  trained  runner, 
Winner  of  prizes, 
Into  the  woodlands 
Plunged  the  young  chieftain. 
Once  he  abruptly 
Halted,  and  listened ; 
Then  he  sped  forward 
Faster  and  faster 
Toward  the  bright  water. 
Breathless  he  reached  it. 
Why  did  he  crouch  then, 
Stark  as  a  statue  ? 
What  did  he  see  there 
Could  so  appall  him  ? 
Only  a  circle 
Swiftly  expanding, 
Fading  before  him ; 
But,  as  he  watched  it, 
Up  from  the  centre, 
Slowly,  superbly, 
Rose  a  Pond-Lily. 

One  cry  of  wonder, 
Shrill  as  the  loon's  call, 
Rang  through  the  forest, 


MIANTOWONA  97 

Startling  the  silence, 
Startling  the  mourners 
Chanting  the  death-song. 
Forth  from  the  village, 
Flocking  together 
Came  all  the  Hurons  — 
Striplings  and  warriors, 
Maidens  and  old  men, 
Squaws  with  pappooses. 
No  word  was  spoken  : 
There  stood  the  Hurons 
On  the  dank  greensward, 
With  their  swart  faces 
Bowed  in  the  twilight. 
What  did  they  see  there  ? 
Only  a  Lily 
Rocked  on  the  azure 
Breast  of  the  water. 

Then  they  turned  sadly 

One  to  another, 

Tenderly  murmuring, 
"  Miantowona ! " 

Soft  as  the  dew  falls 

Down  through  the  midnight, 

Cleaving  the  starlight, 

Echo  repeated, 
"  Miantowona ! " 


98  THE  GUERDON 


THE  GUERDON 

Vedder,  this  legend,  if  it  had  its  due, 
Would  not  be  sung  by  me,  but  told  by  you 
In  colors  such  as  Tintoretto  knew. 

SOOTHED  by  the  fountain's  drowsy  murmuring  — 
Or  was  it  by  the  west-wind's  indolent  wing  ?  — 
The  grim  court-poet  fell  asleep  one  day 
In  the  lords'  chamber,  when  chance  brought  that 

way 

The  Princess  Margaret  with  a  merry  train 
Of  damozels  and  ladies  —  flippant,  vain 
Court-butterflies  —  midst  whom  fair  Margaret 
Swayed  like  a  rathe  and  slender  lily  set 
In  rustling  leaves,  for  all  her  drapery 
Was  green  and  gold,  and  lovely  as  could  be. 

Midway  in  hall  the  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Filling  a  listless  Naiad's  outstretched  shell 
And  weaving  rainbows  in  the  shifting  light. 
Upon  the  carven  friezes,  left  and  right, 
Was  pictured  Pan  asleep  beside  his  reed. 
In  this  place  all  things  seemed  asleep,  indeed  — 
The  hook-billed  parrot  on  his  pendent  ring, 
Sitting  high-shouldered,  half  forgot  to  swing ; 
The  wind  scarce  stirred  the  hangings  at  the  door, 
And  from  the  silken  arras  evermore 
Yawned  drowsy  dwarfs  with  satyr's  face  and  hoof. 


THE  GUERDON  99 

A  forest  of  gold  pillars  propped  the  roof, 
And  like  one  slim  gold  pillar  overthrown, 
The  sunlight  through  a  great  stained  window  shone 
And  lay  across  the  body  of  Alain. 
You  would  have  thought,  perchance,  the  man  was 

slain  : 

As  if  the  checkered  column  in  its  fall 
Had  caught  and  crushed  him,  he  lay  dead  to  all. 
The  parrot's  gray  bead  eye  as  good  as  said, 
Unclosing  viciously,  "  The  clown  is  dead." 
A  dragon-fly  in  narrowing  circles  neared, 
And  lit,  secure,  upon  the  dead  man's  beard, 
Then  spread  its  iris  vans  in  quick  dismay, 
And  into  the  blue  summer  sped  away ! 

Little  was  his  of  outward  grace  to  win 
The  eyes  of  maids,  but  white  the  soul  within. 
Misshaped,  and  hideous  to  look  upon 
Was  this  man,  dreaming  in  the  noontide  sun, 
With  sunken  eyes  and  winter-whitened  hair 
And  sallow  cheeks  deep  seamed  with  thought  and 

care. 

And  so  the  laughing  ladies  of  the  court, 
Coming  upon  him  suddenly,  stopped  short, 
And  shrunk  together  with  a  nameless  dread  : 
Some,  but  fear  held  them,  would  have  turned  and 

fled, 

Seeing  the  uncouth  figure  lying  there. 
But  Princess  Margaret,  with  her  heavy  hair 


loo  THE  GUERDON 

From  out  its  diamond  fillet  rippling  down, 
Slipped  from  the  group,  and   plucking  back   her 

gown 

With  white  left  hand,  stole  softly  to  his  side  — 
The  fair  court  gossips  staring,  curious-eyed, 
Half  mockingly.     A  little  while  she  stood, 
Finger  on  lip  ;  then,  with  the  agile  blood 
Climbing  her  cheek,  and  silken  lashes  wet  — 
She  scarce  knew  what  vague  pity  or  regret 
Wet  them  —  she  stooped,  and  for  a  moment's  space 
Her  golden  tresses  touched  the  sleeper's  face. 
Then  she  stood  straight,  as  lily  on  its  stem, 
But  hearing  her  ladies  titter,  turned  on  them 
Her  great  queen's  eyes,  grown  black  with  scornful 

frown  — 

Great  eyes  that  looked  the  shallow  women  down. 
"  Nay,  not  for  love  " —  one  rosy  palm  she  laid 
Softly  against  her  bosom  —  "  as  I  'm  a  maid ! 
Full  well  I  know  what  cruel  things  you  say 
Of  this  and  that,  but  hold  your  peace  to-day. 
I  pray  you  think  no  evil  thing  of  this. 
Nay,  not  for  love's  sake  did  I  give  the  kiss, 
Not  for  his  beauty  who  's  nor  fair  nor  young, 
But  for  the   songs  which  those   mute   lips  have 

sung." 

That  was  a  right  brave  princess,  one,  I  hold, 
Worthy  to  wear  a  crown  of  beaten  gold. 


TITA'S  TEARS  101 


TITA'S  TEARS 

A  FANTASY 

A  CERTAIN  man  of  Ischia  —  it  is  thus 
The  story  runs  —  one  Lydus  Claudius, 
After  a  life  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Passed  suddenly  from  out  the  sphere  of  men 
Into  the  sphere  of  phantoms. 

In  a  vale 

Where  shoals  of  spirits  against  the  moonlight  pale 
Surged  ever  upward,  in  a  wan-lit  place 
Near  heaven,  he  met  a  Presence  face  to  face  — 
A  figure  like  a  carving  on  a  spire, 
Shrouded  in  wings  and  with  a  fillet  of  fire 
About  the  brows  —  who  stayed  him  there,  and  said  : 
"  This  the  gods  grant  to  thee,  O  newly  dead ! 
Whatever  thing  on  earth  thou  holdest  dear 
Shall,  at  thy  bidding,  be  transported  here, 
Save  wife  or  child,  or  any  living  thing." 
Then  straightway  Claudius  fell  to  wondering 
What  he  should  wish  for.     Having  heaven  at  hand, 
His  wants  were  few,  as  you  can  understand ; 
Riches  and  titles,  matters  dear  to  us, 
To  him,  of  course,  were  now  superfluous. 
But  Tita,  small  brown  Tita,  his  young  wife, 
A  two  weeks'  bride  when  he  took  leave  of  life, 
What  would  become  of  her  without  his  care  ? 


102  TITA'S  TEARS 

Tita,  so  rich,  so  thoughtless,  and  so  fair ! 

At  present  crushed  with  sorrow,  to  be  sure  — 

But  by  and  by  ?     What  earthly  griefs  endure  ? 

They  pass  like  joys.     A  year,  three  years  at  most, 

And  would  she  mourn  her  lord,  so  quickly  lost  ? 

With  fine,  prophetic  ear,  he  heard  afar 

The  tinkling  of  some  horrible  guitar 

Under  her  balcony.     "  Such  thing  could  be," 

Sighed  Claudius  ;  "  I  would  she  were  with  me, 

Safe  from  all  harm."     But  as  that  wish  was  vain, 

He  let  it  drift  from  out  his  troubled  brain 

(His  highly  trained  austerity  was  such 

That  self-denial  never  cost  him  much), 

And  strove  to  think  what  object  he  might  name 

Most  closely  linked  with  the  bereaved  dame. 

Her  wedding  ring  ?  - —  't  would    be    too   small    to 

wear; 

Perhaps  a  ringlet  of  her  raven  hair  ? 
If  not,  her  portrait,  done  in  cameo, 
Or  on  a  background  of  pale  gold  ?     But  no, 
Such  trifles  jarred  with  his  severity. 
At  last  he  thought :  "The  thing  most  meet  for  me 
Would  be  that  antique  flask  wherein  my  bride 
Let  fall  her  heavy  tears  the  night  I  died." 
(It  was  a  custom  of  that  simple  day 
To  have  one's  tears  sealed  up  and  laid  away, 
As  everlasting  tokens  of  regret  — 
They  find  the  bottles  in  Greek  ruins  yet.) 
For  this  he  wished,  then. 


A  BALLAD  103 

Swifter  than  a  thought 

The  Presence  vanished,  and  the  flask  was  brought  — 
Slender,  bell-mouthed,  and  painted  all  around 
With  jet-black  tulips  on  a  saffron  ground ; 
A  tiny  jar,  of  porcelain  if  you  will, 
Which  twenty  tears  would  rather  more  than  fill. 
With  careful  fingers  Claudius  broke  the  seal 
When,  suddenly,  a  well-known  merry  peal 
Of  laughter  leapt  from  out  the  vial's  throat, 
And  died,  as  dies  the  wood-bird's  distant  note. 
Claudius  stared ;  then,  struck  with  strangest  fears, 
Reversed  the  flask  — 

Alas,  for  Tita's  tears ! 


A  BALLAD 

A.  D.  1700 

BR£TAGNE  had  not  her  peer.  In  the  Province  far 
or  near 

There  were  never  such  brown  tresses,  such  a  fault- 
less hand ; 

She  had  youth,  and  she  had  gold,  she  had  jewels 
all  untold, 

And  many  a  lover  bold  wooed  the  Lady  of  the 
Land. 


104  A  BALLAD 

But  she,  with  queenliest  grace,  bent  low  her  pallid 

face, 
And  "  Woo  me  not,  for  Jesus'  sake,  fair  gentlemen," 

she  said. 
If  they  wooed,  then  —  with  a  frown  she  would  strike 

their  passion  down  : 
She  might  have  wed  a  crown  to  the  ringlets  on  her 

head. 

From  the  dizzy  castle-tips,  hour  by  hour  she  watched 
the  ships, 

Like  sheeted  phantoms  coming  and  going  ever- 
more, 

While  the  twilight  settled  down  on  the  sleepy  sea- 
port town, 

On  the  gables  peaked  and  brown,  that  had  sheltered 
kings  of  yore. 

Dusky  belts  of  cedar-wood  partly  clasped  the  widen- 
ing flood ; 

Like  a  knot  of  daisies  lay  the  hamlets  on  the  hill ; 

In  the  hostelry  below  sparks  of  light  would  come 
and  go, 

And  faint  voices,  strangely  low,  from  the  garrulous 
old  mill. 

Here  the  land  in  grassy  swells  gently  broke ;  there 

sunk  in  dells 
With  mosses  green  and  purple,  and  prongs  of  rock 

and  peat ; 


A  BALLAD  105 

Here,  in  statue-like  repose,  an  old  wrinkled  moun- 
tain rose, 

With  its  hoary  head  in  snows,  and  wild  roses  at  its 
feet. 

And  so  oft  she  sat  alone  in  the  turret  of  gray  stone, 
And  looked  across  the  moorland,  so  woful,  to  the 

sea, 
That  there  grew  a  village-cry,  how  her  cheek  did 

lose  its  dye, 
As  a  ship,  once,  sailing  by,  faded  on  the  sapphire 

lea. 

Her  few  walks  led  all  one  way,  and  all  ended  at 

the  gray 
And  ragged,  jagged   rocks  that  fringe  the  lonely 

beach ; 
There  she  would  stand,  the  Sweet !  with  the  white 

surf  at  her  feet, 
While  above  her  wheeled  the  fleet  sparrow-hawk 

with  startling  screech. 

And  she  ever  loved  the  sea,  with  its  haunting  mys- 
tery, 

Its  whispering  weird  voices,  its  never-ceasing  roar : 

And  't  was  well  that,  when  she  died,  they  made  her 
a  grave  beside 

The  blue  pulses  of  the  tide,  by  the  towers  of  Cas- 
telnore. 


106  A  BALLAD 

Now,  one  chill  November  dawn,  many  russet  au- 
tumns gone, 

A  strange  ship  with  folded  wings  lay  idly  off  the 
lea; 

It  had  lain  throughout  the  night  with  its  wings  of 
murky  white 

Folded,  after  weary  flight  —  the  worn  nursling  of 
the  sea. 

Crowds  of  peasants  flocked  the  sands ;  there  were 

tears  and  clasping  hands  ; 
And  a  sailor  from   the  ship  stalked   through  the 

church-yard  gate. 
Then  amid  the  grass  that  crept,  fading,  over  her 

who  slept, 
How  he  hid  his  face  and  wept,  crying,  Late,  too 

late!  too  late! 

And  they  called  her  cold.  God  knows.  .  .  .  Under- 
neath the  winter  snows 

The  invisible  hearts  of  flowers  grow  ripe  for  blos- 
soming ! 

And  the  lives  that  look  so  cold,  if  their  stories 
could  be  told, 

Would  seem  cast  in  gentler  mould,  would  seem  full 
of  love  and  spring. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CGELI  107 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 


LOOKING  at  Fra  Gervasio, 
Wrinkled  and  withered  and  old  and  gray, 
A  dry  Franciscan  from  crown  to  toe, 
You  would  never  imagine,  by  any  chance, 
That,  in  the  convent  garden  one  day, 
He  spun  this  thread  of  golden  romance. 

Romance  to  me,  but  to  him,  indeed, 
'Twas  a  matter  that  did  not  hold  a  doubt; 
A  miracle,  nothing  more  nor  less. 
Did  I  think  it  strange  that,  in  our  need, 
Leaning  from  Heaven  to  our  distress, 
The  Virgin  brought  such  things  about  — 
Gave    mute    things    speech,    made    dead    things 

move  ?  — 

Mother  of  Mercy,  Lady  of  Love  ! 
Besides,  I  might,  if  I  wished,  behold 
The  Bambino's  self  in  his  cloth  of  gold 
And  silver  tissue,  lying  in  state 
In  the  Sacristy.     Would  the  signer  wait  ? 

Whoever  will  go  to  Rome  may  see, 
In  the  chapel  of  the  Sacristy 
Of  Ara-Cceli,  the  Sainted  Child  — 


io8  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Garnished  from  throat  to  foot  with  rings 

And  brooches  and  precious  offerings, 

And  its  little  nose  kissed  quite  away 

By  dying  lips.     At  Epiphany, 

If  the  holy  winter  day  prove  mild, 

It  is  shown  to  the  wondering,  gaping  crowd 

On  the  church's  steps  —  held  high  aloft  — 

While  every  sinful  head  is  bowed, 

And  the  music  plays,  and  the  censers'  soft 

White  breath  ascends  like  silent  prayer. 

Many  a  beggar  kneeling  there, 
Tattered  and  hungry,  without  a  home, 
Would  not  envy  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
If  he,  the  beggar,  had  half  the  care 
Bestowed  on  him  that  falls  to  the  share 
Of  yonder  Image  —  for  you  must  know 
It  has  its  minions  to  come  and  go, 
Its  perfumed  chamber,  remote  and  still, 
Its  silken  couch,  and  its  jewelled  throne, 
And  a  special  carriage  of  its  own 
To  take  the  air  in,  when  it  will ; 
And  though  it  may  neither  drink  nor  eat, 
By  a  nod  to  its  ghostly  seneschal 
It  could  have  of  the  choicest  wine  and  meat. 
Often  some  princess,  brown  and  tall, 
Comes,  and  unclasping  from  her  arm 
The  glittering  bracelet,  leaves  it,  warm 
With  her  throbbing  pulse,  at  the  Baby's  feet. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  109 

Ah,  he  is  loved  by  high  and  low, 

Adored  alike  by  simple  and  wise. 

The  people  kneel  to  him  in  the  street. 

What  a  felicitous  lot  is  his  — 

To  lie  in  the  light  of  ladies'  eyes, 

Petted  and  pampered,  and  never  to  know 

The  want  of  a  dozen  soldi  or  so ! 

And  what  does  he  do  for  all  of  this  ? 

What  does  the  little  Bambino  do  ? 

It  cures  the  sick,  and,  in  fact,  't  is  said 

Can  almost  bring  life  back  to  the  dead. 

Who  doubts  it  ?     Not  Fra  Gervasio. 

When  one  falls  ill,  it  is  left  alone 

For  a  while  with  one  —  and  the  fever 's  gone  ! 

At  least,  't  was  once  so ;  but  to-day 
It  is  never  permitted,  unattended 
By  monk  or  priest,  to  work  its  lure 
At  sick  folks'  beds  —  all  that  was  ended 
By  one  poor  soul  whose  feeble  clay 
Satan  tempted  and  made  secure. 

It  was  touching  this  very  point  the  friar 
Told  me  the  legend,  that  afternoon, 
In  the  cloisteral  garden  all  on  fire 
With  scarlet  poppies  and  golden  stalks. 
Here  and  there  on  -the  sunny  walks, 
Startled  by  some  slight  sound  we  made, 
A  lizard,  awaking  from  its  swoon, 


i  io  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Shot  like  an  arrow  into  the  shade. 

I  can  hear  the  fountain's  languorous  tune, 

(How  it  comes  back,  that  hour  in  June 

When  just  to  exist  was  joy  enough !) 

I  can  see  the  olives,  silvery-gray, 

The  carven  masonry  rich  with  stains, 

The  gothic  windows  with  lead-set  panes, 

The  flag-paved  cortile,  the  convent  grates, 

And  Fra  Gervasio  holding  his  snuff 

In  a  squirrel-like  meditative  way 

'Twixt  ringer  and  thumb.     But  the  Legend  waits. 


ii 

It  was  long  ago  (so  long  ago 

That  Fra  Gervasio  did  not  know 

What  year  of  our  Lord),  there  came  to  Rome 

Across  the  Campagna's  flaming  red, 

A  certain  Filippo  and  his  wife  — 

Peasants,  and  very  newly  wed. 

In  the  happy  spring  and  blossom  of  life, 

When  the  light  heart  chirrups  to  lovers'  calls, 

These  two,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  come 

And  built  their  nest  'gainst  the  city's  walls. 

He,  with  his  scanty  garden-plots, 
Raised  flowers  and  fruit  for  the  market-place, 
Where  she,  with  her  pensile,  flower-like  face  — 
Own  sister  to  her  forget-me-nots  — 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-COELI  HI 

Played  merchant :  and  so  they  thrived  apace, 
In  humble  content,  with  humble  cares, 
And  modest  longings,  till,  unawares, 
Sorrow  crept  on  them  ;  for  to  their  nest 
Had  come  no  little  ones,  and  at  last 
When  six  or  seven  summers  had  passed, 
\Seeing  no  baby  at  her  breast, 
The  husband  brooded,  and  then  grew  cold; 
Scolded  and  fretted  over  this  — 
Who  would  tend  them  when  they  were  old, 
And  palsied,  may  be,  sitting  alone, 
Hungry,  beside  the  cold  hearth-stone  ? 
Not  to  have  children,  like  the  rest! 
It  cankered  the  very  heart  of  bliss. 

Then  he  fell  into  indolent  ways, 
Neglecting  the  garden  for  days  and  days, 
Playing  at  mora,  drinking  wine, 
With  this  and  that  one  —  letting  the  vine 
Run  riot  and  die  for  want  of  care, 
And  the  choke-weeds  gather  ;  for  it  was  spring, 
When  everything  needed  nurturing. 
But  he  would  drowse  for  hours  in  the  sun, 
Or  sit  on  the  broken  step  by  the  shed, 
Like  a  man  whose  honest  toil  is  done, 
Sullen,  with  never  a  word  to  spare, 
Or  a  word  that  were  better  all  unsaid. 
And  Nina,  so  light  of  thought  before, 
Singing  about  the  cottage  door 


112          THE   LEGEND   OF  ARA-CCELI 

In  her  mountain  dialect  —  sang  no  more ; 

But  came  and  went,  sad-faced  and  shy, 

Wishing,  at  times,  that  she  might  die, 

Brooding  and  fretting  in  her  turn. 

Often,  in  passing  along  the  street, 

Her  basket  of  flowers  poised,  peasant-wise, 

On  a  lustrous  braided  coil  of  her  hair, 

She  would  halt,  and  her  dusky  cheek  would  burn 

Like  a  poppy,  beholding  at  her  feet 

Some  stray  little  urchin,  dirty  and  bare. 

And  sudden  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes 

That  the  tiny  waif  was  not  her  own, 

To  fondle,  and  kiss,  and  teach  to  pray. 

Then  she  passed  onward,  making  moan. 

Sometimes  she  would  stand  in  the  sunny  square, 

Like  a  slim  bronze  statue  of  Despair, 

Watching  the  children  at  their  play. 

In  the  broad  piazza  was  a  shrine, 
With  Our  Lady  holding  on  her  knee 
A  small  nude  waxen  effigy. 
Nina  passed  by  it  every  day, 
And  morn  and  even,  in  rain  or  shine, 
Repeated  an  ave  there.     "  Divine 
Mother,"  she  'd  cry,  as  she  turned  away, 
"  Sitting  in  paradise,  undefiled, 
Oh,  have  pity  on  my  distress ! " 
Then  glancing  back  at  the  rosy  Child, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  113 

She  would  cry  to  it,  in  her  helplessness, 
"  Pray  her  to  send  the  like  to  me  !  " 

Now  once  as  she  knelt  before  the  saint, 
Lifting  her  hands  in  silent  pain, 
She  paled,  and  her  heavy  heart  grew  faint 
At  a  thought  which  flashed  across  her  brain  — 
The  blinding  thought  that,  perhaps  if  she 
Had  lived  in  the  world's  miraculous  morn 
God  might  have  chosen  her  to  be 
The  mother  —  Oh,  heavenly  ecstasy  !  — 
Of  the  little  babe  in  the  manger  born  ! 
She,  too,  was  a  peasant  girl,  like  her, 
The  wife  of  the  lowly  carpenter ! 
Like  Joseph's  wife,  a  peasant  girl ! 

Her  strange  little  head  was  in  a  whirl 
As  she  rose  from  her  knees  to  wander  home, 
Leaving  her  basket  at  the  shrine ; 
So  dazed  was  she,  she  scarcely  knew 
The  old  familiar  streets  of  Rome, 
Nor  whither  she  wished  to  go,  in  fine ; 
But  wandered  on,  now  crept,  now  flew, 
In  the  gathering  twilight,  till  she  came 
Breathless,  bereft  of  sense  and  sight, 
To  the  gloomy  Arch  of  Constantine, 
And  there  they  found  her,  late  that  night, 
With  her  cheeks  like  snow  and  her  lips  like  flame  \ 


4  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Many  a  time  from  day  to  day, 
She  heard,  as  if  in  a  troubled  dream, 
Footsteps  around  her,  and  some  one  saying-— 
Was  it  Filippo  ?  —  "  Is  she  dead  ? " 
Then  it  was  some  one  near  her  praying, 
And  she  was  drifting  —  drifting  away 
From  saints  and  martyrs  in  endless  glory ! 
She  seemed  to  be  floating  down  a  stream, 
Yet  knew  she  was  lying  in  her  bed. 
The  fancy  held  her  that  she  had  died, 
And  this  was  her  soul  in  purgatory, 
Until,  one  morning,  two  holy  men 
From  the  convent  came,  and  laid  at  her  side 
The  Bambino.     Blessed  Virgin  !  then 
Nina  looked  up,  and  laughed,  and  wept, 
And  folded  it  close  to  her  heart,  and  slept. 

Slept  such  a  soft,  refreshing  sleep, 
That  when  she  awoke  her  eyes  had  taken 
The  hyaline  lustre,  dewy,  deep, 
Of  violets  when  they  first  awaken ; 
And  the  half-unravelled,  fragile  thread 
Of  life  was  knitted  together  again. 
But  she  shrunk  with  sudden,  speechless  pain, 
And  seemed  to  droop  like  a  flower,  the  day 
The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 
To  carry  the  Miracle  Child  away ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  115 


III 

Ere  spring  in  the  heart  of  pansies  burned, 

Or  the  buttercup  had  loosed  its  gold, 

Nina  was  busy  as  ever  of  old 

With  fireside  cares ;  but  was  not  the  same, 

For  from  the  hour  when  she  had  turned 

To  clasp  the  Image  the  fathers  brought 

To  her  dying-bed,  a  single  thought 

Had  taken  possession  of  her  brain : 

A  purpose,  as  steady  as  the  flame 

Of  a  lamp  in  some  cathedral  crypt, 

Had  lighted  her  on  her  bed  of  pain ; 

The  thirst  and  the  fever,  they  had  slipped 

Away  like  visions,  but  this  had  stayed  — 

To  have  the  Bambino  brought  again, 

To  have  it,  and  keep  it  for  her  own ! 

That  was  the  secret  dream  which  made 

Life  for  her  now  —  in  the  streets,  alone, 

At  night,  and  morning,  and  when  she  prayed. 

How  should  she  wrest  it  from  the  hand 
Of  the  jealous  Church  ?  How  keep  the  Child  ? 
Flee  with  it  into  some  distant  land  — 
Like  mother  Mary  from  Herod's  ire  ? 
Ah,  well,  she  knew  not ;  she  only  knew 
It  was  written  down  in  the  Book  of  Fate 


ii6  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

That  she  should  have  her  heart's  desire, 
And  very  soon  now,  for  of  late, 
In  a  dream,  the  little  thing  had  smiled 
Up  in  her  face,  with  one  eye's  blue 
Peering  from  underneath  her  breast, 
Which  the  baby  fingers  had  softly  pressed 
Aside,  to  look  at  her  !     Holy  one  ! 
But  that  should  happen  ere  all  was  done. 

Lying  dark  in  the  woman's  mind  — 
Unknown,  like  a  seed  in  fallow  ground  — 
Was  the  germ  of  a  plan,  confused  and  blind 
At  first,  but  which,  as  the  weeks  rolled  round. 
Reached  light,  and  flowered  —  a  subtile  flower, 
Deadly  as  nightshade.     In  that  same  hour 
She  sought  the  husband  and  said  to  him, 
With  crafty  tenderness  in  her  eyes 
And  treacherous  archings  of  her  brows, 
"  Filippo  mio,  thou  lov'st  me  well  ? 
Truly  ?     Then  get  thee  to  the  house 
Of  the  long-haired  Jew  Ben  Raphaim  — 
Seller  of  curious  tapestries, 
(Ah,  he  hath  everything  to  sell !) 
The  cunning  carver  of  images  — 
And  bid  him  to  carve  thee  to  the  life 
A  bambinetto  like  that  they  gave 
In  my  arms,  to  hold  me  from  the  grave 
When  the  fever  pierced  me  like  a  knife. 
Perhaps,  if  we  set  the  image  there 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  117 

By  the  Cross,  the  saints  would  hear  the  prayer 
Which  in  all  these  years  they  have  not  heard." 

Then  the  husband  went,  without  a  word, 
To  the  crowded  Ghetto  j  for  since  the  days 
Of  Nina's  illness  the  man  had  been 
A  tender  husband  —  with  lover's  ways 
Striving,  as  best  he  might,  to  wean 
The  wife  from  her  sadness,  and  to  bring 
Back  to  the  home  whence  it  had  fled 
The  happiness  of  that  laughing  spring 
When  they,  like  a  pair  of  birds,  had  wed. 

The  image  !     It  was  a  woman's  whim  — 
They  were  full  of  whims.     But  what  to  him 
Were  a  dozen  pieces  of  silver  spent, 
If  it  made  her  happy  ?     And  so  he  went 
To  the  house  of  the  Jew  Ben  Raphaim. 
And  the  carver  heard,  and  bowed,  and  smiled, 
And  fell  to  work  as  if  he  had  known 
The  thought  that  lay  in  the  woman's  brain, 
And  somehow  taken  it  for  his  own  : 
For  even  before  the  month  was  flown 
He  had  carved  a  figure  so  like  the  Child 
Of  Ara-Cceli,  you  'd  not  have  told, 
Had  both  been  decked  with  jewel  and  chain 
And  dressed  alike  in  a  dress  of  gold, 
Which  was  the  true  one  of  the  twain. 


ii8  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-COELI 

When  Nina  beheld  it  first,  her  heart 
Stood  still  with  wonder.     The  skilful  Jew 
Had  given  the  eyes  the  tender  blue, 
And  the  cheeks  the  delicate  olive  hue, 
And  the  form  almost  the  curve  and  line 
Of  the  Image  the  good  Apostle  made 
Immortal  with  his  miraculous  art, 
What  time  the  sculptor 1  dreamed  in  the  shade 
Under  the  skies  of  Palestine. 
The  bright  new  coins  that  clinked  in  the  palm 
Of  the  carver  in  wood  were  blurred  and  dim 
Compared  with  the  eyes  that  looked  at  him 
From  the  low  sweet  brows,  so  seeming  calm ; 
Then  he  went  his  way,  and  her  joy  broke  free, 
And  Filippo  smiled  to  hear  Nina  sing 
In  the  old,  old  fashion  —  carolling 
Like  a  very  thrush,  with  many  a  trill 
And  long-drawn,  flute-like,  honeyed  note, 
Till  the  birds  in  the  farthest  mulberry, 
Each  outstretching  its  amber  bill, 
Answered  her  with  melodious  throat. 

Thus  sped  two  days  ;  but  on  the  third 
Her  singing  ceased,  and  there  came  a  change 
As  of  death  on  Nina ;  her  talk  grew  strange, 

1  According  to  a  monastic  legend,  the  Santissimo  Bambino  was 
carved  by  a  pilgrim,  out  of  a  tree  which  grew  on  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  and  painted  by  St.  Luke  while  the  pilgrim  was  sleeping  over 
his  work. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  119 

Then  she  sunk  in  a  trance,  nor  spoke  nor  stirred ; 

And  the  husband,  wringing  his  hands  dismayed, 

Watched  by  the  bed  ;  but  she  breathed  no  word 

That  night,  nor  until  the  morning  broke, 

When  she  roused  from  the  spell,  and  feebly  laid 

Her  hand  on  Filippo's  arm,  and  spoke : 

"  Quickly,  Filippo  !  get  thee  gone 

To  the  holy  fathers,  and  beg  them  send 

The  Bambino  hither  "  —  her  cheeks  were  wan 

And  her  eyes  like  coals  —  "  Oh,  go,  my  friend, 

Or  all  is  said  !  "     Through  the  morning's  gray 

Filippo  hurried,  like  one  distraught, 

To  the  monks,  and  told  his  tale ;  and  they, 

Straight  after  matins,  came  and  brought 

The  Miracle  Child,  and  went  their  way. 

Once  more  in  her  arms  was  the  Infant  laid, 
After  these  weary  months,  once  more  ! 
Yet  the  woman  seemed  like  a  thing  of  stone 
While  the  dark-robed  fathers  knelt  and  prayed  ; 
But  the  instant  the  holy  friars  were  gone 
She  arose,  and  took  the  broidered  gown 
From  the  Baby  Christ,  and  the  yellow  crown 
And  the  votive  brooches  and  rings  it  wore, 
Till  the  little  figure,  so  gay  before 
In  its  princely  apparel,  stood  as  bare 
As  your  ungloved  hand.     With  tenderest  care, 
At  her  feet,  'twixt  blanket  and  counterpane. 
She  hid  the  Babe ;  and  then,  reaching  down 


120  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-OELI 

To  the  coffer  wherein  the  thing  had  lain, 
Drew  forth  Ben  Raphaim's  manikin 
In  haste,  and  dressed  it  in  robe  and  crown, 
With  lace  and  bauble  and  diamond-pin. 
This  finished,  she  turned  to  stone  again, 
And  lay  as  one  would  have  thought  quite  dead 
If  it  had  not  been  for  a  spot  of  red 
Upon  either  cheek.     At  the  close  of  day 
The  Capuchins  came,  with  solemn  tread, 
And  carried  the  false  bambino  away ! 

Over  the  vast  Campagna's  plain, 
At  sunset,  a  wind  began  to  blow 
(From  the  Apennines  it  came,  they  say), 
Softly  at  first,  and  then  to  grow  — 
As  the  twilight  gathered  and  hurried  by  — 
To  a  gale,  with  sudden  tumultuous  rain 
And  thunder  muttering  far  away. 
When   the   night  was   come,  from  the  blackened 

sky 

The  spear-tongued  lightning  slipped  like  a  snake, 
And  the  great  clouds  clashed,  and  seemed  to  shake 
The  earth  to  its  centre.     Then  swept  down 
Such  a  storm  as  was  never  seen  in  Rome 
By  any  one  living  in  that  day. 
Not  a  soul  dared  venture  from  his  home, 
Not  a  soul  in  all  the  crowded  town. 
Dumb  beasts  dropped  dead,  with  terror,  in  stall ; 
Great  chimney-stacks  were  overthrown, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI  121 

And  about  the  streets  the  tiles  were  blown 
Like  leaves  in  autumn.     A  fearful  night, 
With  ominous  voices  in  the  air ! 
Indeed,  it  seemed  like  the  end  of  all. 
In  the  convent,  the  monks  for  very  fright 
Went  not  to  bed,  but  each  in  his  cell 
Counted  his  beads  by  the  taper's  light, 
Quaking  to  hear  the  dreadful  sounds, 
And  shrivelling  in  the  lightning's  glare. 
It  was  as  if  the  rivers  of  Hell 
Had  risen,  and  overleaped  their  bounds. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  at  the  convent  door, 
Above  the  tempest's  raving  and  roar 
Came  a  sudden  knocking  !     Mother  of  Grace, 
What  desperate  wretch  was  forced  to  face 
Such  a  night  as  that  was  out-of-doors  ? 
Across  the  echoless,  stony  floors 
Into  the  windy  corridors 

The  monks  came  flocking,  and  down  the  stair, 
Silently,  glancing  each  at  each, 
As  if  they  had  lost  the  power  of  speech. 
Yes  —  it  was  some  one  knocking  there  ! 
And  then  —  strange  thing !  —  untouched  by  a  soul 
The  bell  of  the  convent  'gan  to  toll ! 
It  curdled  the  blood  beneath  their  hair. 
Reaching  the  court,  the  brothers  stood 
Huddled  together,  pallid  and  mute, 
By  the  massive  door  of  iron-clamped  wood, 


122  THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA-CCELI 

Till  one  old  monk,  more  resolute 

Than  the  others  —  a  man  of  pious  will  — 

Stepped  forth,  and  letting  his  lantern  rest 

On  the  pavement,  crouched  upon  his  breast 

And  peeped  through  a  chink  there  was  between 

The  cedar  door  and  the  sunken  sill. 

At  the  instant  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 

Seeming  to  wrap  the  world  in  flame. 

He  gave  but  a  glance,  and  straight  arose 

With  his  face  like  a  corpse's.     What  had  he  seen  ? 

Two  dripping,  little  pink-white  toes ! 

Then,  like  a  man  gone  suddenly  wild, 

He  tugged  at  the  bolts,  flung  down  the  chain, 

And  there,  in  the  night  and  wind  and  rain  — 

Shivering,  piteous,  and  forlorn, 

And  naked  as  ever  it  was  born  — 

On  the  threshold  stood  the  SAINTED  CHILD  ! 

"  Since  then,"  said  Fra  Gervasio, 
"We  have  never  let  the  Bambino  go 
Unwatched  —  no,  not  by  a  prince's  bed. 
Ah,  signor,  it  made  a  dreadful  stir." 
"  And  the  woman  —  Nina  —  what  of  her  ? 
Had  she  no  story? "     He  bowed  his  head, 
And  knitting  his  meagre  fingers,  so  — 
"  In  that  night  of  wind  and  wrath,"  said  he, 
"  There  was  wrought  in  Rome  a  mystery. 
What  know  I,  signor  ?     They  found  her  dead !  " 


"LEGEND    OF    ARA-CCELI."     Page  122. 


BAGATELLE 


CORYDON 

A    PASTORAL 

SCENE  :  A  roadside  in  A  ready 
SHEPHERD 

GOOD  sir,  have  you  seen  pass  this  way 
A  mischief  straight  from  market-day  ? 
You  'd  know  her  at  a  glance,  I  think  \ 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  lips  are  pink ; 
She  has  a  way  of  looking  back 
Over  her  shoulder,  and,  alack  ! 
Who  gets  that  look  one  time,  good  sir, 
Has  naught  to  do  but  follow  her. 

PILGRIM 

I  have  not  seen  this  maid,  methinks, 
Though  she  that  passed  had  lips  like  pinks. 

SHEPHERD 

Or  like  two  strawberries  made  one 

By  some  sly  trick  of  dew  and  sun. 
123 


124  BAGATELLE 

PILGRIM 

A  poet ! 

SHEPHERD 

Nay,  a  simple  swain 
That  tends  his  flock  on  yonder  plain, 
Naught  else,  I  swear  by  book  and  bell. 
But  she  that  passed  —  you  marked  her  well, 
Was  she  not  smooth  as  any  be 
That  dwell  herein  in  Arcady  ? 

PILGRIM 

Her  skin  was  as  the  satin  bark 
Of  birches. 

SHEPHERD 

Light  or  dark  ? 

PILGRIM 

Quite  dark. 

.  SHEPHERD 

Then  'twas  not  she. 

PILGRIM 

The  peach's  side 
That  gets  the  sun  is  not  so  dyed 
As  was  her  cheek.     Her  hair  hung  down 


BAGATELLE  125 

Like  summer  twilight  falling  brown  ; 
And  when  the  breeze  swept  by,  I  wist 
Her  face  was  in  a  sombre  mist. 

SHEPHERD 

No,  that  is  not  the  maid  I  seek. 

Her  liair  lies  gold  against  the  cheek ; 

Her  yellow  tresses  take  the  morn 

Like  silken  tassels  of  the  corn. 

And  yet  —  brown  locks  are  far  from  bad. 

PILGRIM 

Now  I  bethink  me,  this  one  had 
A  figure  like  the  willow-tree 
Which,  slight  and  supple,  wondrously 
Inclines  to  droop  with  pensive  grace, 
And  still  retains  its  proper  place ; 
A  foot  so  arched  and  very  small 
The  marvel  was  she  walked  at  all ; 
Her  hand  —  in  sooth  I  lack  for  words  — 
Her  hand,  five  slender  snow-white  birds ; 
Her    voice  —  through    she    but    said   "God- 
speed "  — 

Was  melody  blown  through  a  reed  j 
The  girl  Pan  changed  into  a  pipe 
Had  not  a  note  so  full  and  ripe. 
And  then  her  eye  —  my  lad,  her  eye  ! 
Discreet,  inviting,  candid,  shy, 


126  BAGATELLE 

An  outward  ice,  an  inward  fire, 
And  lashes  to  the  heart's  desire  — 
Soft  fringes  blacker  than  the  sloe. 

SHEPHERD,   thoughtfully 

Good  sir,  which  way  did  this  one  go  ? 


PILGRIM,   solus 

So,  he  is  off !     The  silly  youth 
Knoweth  not  Love  in  sober  sooth. 
He  loves  —  thus  lads  at  first  are  blind 
No  woman,  only  Womankind. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA 

BENEATH  the  warrior's  helm,  behold 
The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman ! 

Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will  — 

A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?     No  !  't  is  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading ; 

If  not  —  then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading ! 


BAGATELLE  127 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses : 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that  ? 

Was  Wisdom's  mouth  so  shaped  for  kisses  ? 

The  Nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 
And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn : 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 

She 's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column ! 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he  ?     Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden-place, 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 

Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  't  was  Lai's. 

But  he  is  dust ;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story  : 
Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries, 

His  work  outlives  him  —  there 's  his  glory ! 


128  BAGATELLE 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 
Beneath  a  lava-buried  city ; 

The  countless  summers  came  and  went 
With  neither  haste,  nor  hate,  nor  pity» 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 
The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 

Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up  — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom ! 

O  nameless  brother  !  see  how  Time 
Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come,  at  last,  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate-stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so ! 


THE   MENU 

I  BEG  you  come  to-night  and  dine. 
A  welcome  waits  you,  and  sound  wine 
The  Roederer  chilly  to  a  charm, 
As  Juno's  breath  the  claret  warm, 
The  sherry  of  an  ancient  brand. 


BAGATELLE  129 

No  Persian  pomp,  you  understand  — 
A  soup,  a  fish,  two  meats,  and  then 
A  salad  fit  for  aldermen 
(When  aldermen,  alas  the  days ! 
Were  really  worth  their  mayonnaise) ; 
A  dish  of  grapes  whose  clusters  won 
Their  bronze  in  Carolinian  sun ; 
Next,  cheese  —  for  you  the  Neufchatel, 
A  bit  of  Cheshire  likes  me  well ; 
Cafe  au  lait  or  coffee  black, 
With  Kirsch  or  Kiimmel  or  Cognac 
(The  German  band  in  Irving  Place 
By  this  time  purple  in  the  face) ; 
Cigars  and  pipes.     These  being  through, 
Friends  shall  drop  in,  a  very  few  — 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  no  more. 
When  these  are  guests  I  bolt'  the  door, 
With  Not  at  Home  to  any  one 
Excepting  Alfred  Tennyson. 


COMEDY 

THEY  parted,  with  clasps  of  hand, 
And  kisses,  and  burning  tears. 
They  met,  in  a  foreign  land, 
After  some  twenty  years : 


130  BAGATELLE 

Met  as  acquaintances  meet, 
Smilingly,  tranquil-eyed  — 
Not  even  the  least  little  beat 
Of  the  heart,  upon  either  side ! 

They  chatted  of  this  and  that, 
The  nothings  that  make  up  life ; 
She  in  a  Gainsborough  hat, 
And  he  in  black  for  his  wife. 


IN  AN  ATELIER 

I  PRAY  you,  do  not  turn  your  head ; 
And  let  your  hands  lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red, 
That  troubled  Dante,  long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante  ?     Never  mind. 
He  loved  a  lady  wondrous  fair  — 
His  model  ?     Something  of  the  kind. 
I  wonder  if  she  had  your  hair ! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  was  not  meek  at  all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side  light  on  your  cheek). 
He  loved  her,  it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  paint  you, 
But  rather  better,  on  the  whole 


BAGATELLE 

(Depress  your  chin  ;  yes,  that  will  do) : 
He  was  a  painter  of  the  soul ! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think, 
In  the  INFERNO  —  devilish  good  ! 
I  M  make  some  certain  critics  blink 
Had  I  his  method  and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance 
Rest  there,  by  that  majolica  tray)  — 
Was  Beatrice  ;  they  met  by  chance  — 
They  met  by  chance,  the  usual  way. 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago, 
Do  you  remember  ?     How  your  feet 
Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow 
Along  the  bleak  gas-lighted  street ! 
An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare 
You  stood  as  in  a  golden  frame, 
And  then  I  swore  it,  then  and  there, 
To  hand  your  sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed 
(All  this  was  long  before  our  time), 
And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead 
Such  endless  youth  gives  mortal  rhyme  ! 
Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien, 
Pale  Dante,  in  his  soul's  distress ; 
And  still  the  lovely  Florentine 
Goes  lovely  in  her  wine-red  dress. 


132  BAGATELLE 

You  do  not  understand  at  all  ? 

He  was  a  poet ;  on  his  page 

He  drew  her ;  and,  though  kingdoms  fall, 

This  lady  lives  from  age  to  age. 

A  poet  —  that  means  painter  too, 

For  words  are  colors,  rightly  laid  ; 

And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue, 

For  varnish  cracks  and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets  —  they  are  lucky  ones  ! 
When  we  are  thrust  upon  the  shelves, 
Our  works  turn  into  skeletons 
Almost  as  quickly  as  ourselves ; 
For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length, 
At  length  is  prized  —  when  all  is  bare : 
"  What  grace  !  "  the  critics  cry,  "  what  strength ! " 
When  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
It  is  so  little  one  can  do ; 
We  talk  our  jargon  —  live  for  Art ! 
I  'd  much  prefer  to  live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are ! 
You  smile,  and  all  my  picture  lies : 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star 
To  make  a  pigment  for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know,  I  'm  out  of  tune  ; 
The  light  is  bad ;  the  sky  is  gray : 


BAGATELLE  133 

I  paint  no  more  this  afternoon, 

So  lay  your  royal  gear  away. 

Besides,  you  're  moody  —  chin  on  hand  — 

I  know  not  what  —  not  in  the  vein  — 

Not  like  Anne  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland : 

You  sit  there  smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  the  Tudor's  radiant  Queen, 
Unconscious  of  the  coming  woe, 
But  rather  as  she  might  have  been, 
Preparing  for  the  headsman's  blow. 
So,  I  have  put  you  in  a  miff  — 
Sitting  bolt-upright,  wrist  on  wrist. 
How  should  you  look  ?     Why,  dear,  as  if — 
Somehow  —  as  if  you  'd  just  been  kissed ! 


AT  A  READING 

THE  spare  Professor,  grave  and  bald, 
Began  his  paper.     It  was  called, 
I  think,  "  A  brief  Historic  Glance 
At  Russia,  Germany,  and  France." 
A  glance,  but  to  my  best  belief 
'T  was  almost  anything  but  brief  — 
A  wide  survey,  in  which  the  earth 
Was  seen  before  mankind  had  birth; 


134  BAGATELLE 

Strange  monsters  basked  them  in  the  sun, 
Behemoth,  armored  glyptodon, 
And  in  the  dawn's  unpractised  ray 
The  transient  dodo  winged  its  way  ; 
Then,  by  degrees,  through  silt  and  slough, 
We  reached  Berlin  —  I  don't  know  how. 
The  good  Professor's  monotone 
Had  turned  me  into  senseless  stone 
Instanter,  but  that  near  me  sat 
Hypatia  in  her  new  spring  hat, 
Blue-eyed,  intent,  with  lips  whose  bloom 
Lighted  the  heavy-curtained  room. 
Hypatia  —  ah,  what  lovely  things 
Are  fashioned  out  of  eighteen  springs  I 
At  first,  in  sums  of  this  amount, 
The  blighting  winters  do  not  count. 
Just  as  my  eyes  were  growing  dim 
With  heaviness,  I  saw  that  slim, 
Erect,  elastic  figure  there, 
Like  a  pond-lily  taking  air. 
She  looked  so  fresh,  so  wise,  so  neat, 
So  altogether  crisp  and  sweet, 
I  quite  forgot  what  Bismarck  said, 
And  why  the  Emperor  shook  his  head, 
And  how  it  was  Von  Moltke's  frown 
Cost  France  another  frontier  town. 
The  only  facts  I  took  away 
From  the  Professor's  theme  that  day 


BAGATELLE  135 

Were  these  :  a  forehead  broad  and  low, 
Such  as  the  antique  sculptures  show ; 
A  chin  to  Greek  perfection  true  ; 
Eyes  of  Astarte's  tender  blue ; 
A  high  complexion  without  fleck 
Or  flaw,  and  curls  about  her  neck. 


AMONTILLADO 

(In  a  rhythm  of  Mr.  Thackeray) 

RAFTERS  black  with  smoke, 

White  with  sand  the  floor  is, 
Twenty  whiskered  Dons 

Calling  to  Dolores  — 
Tawny  flower  of  Spain, 

Wild  rose  of  Granada, 
Keeper  of  the  wines 

In  this  old  posada. 

Hither,  light-of-foot, 

Dolores  —  Juno  —  Circe  ! 
Pretty  Spanish  girl 

Without  a  grain  of  mercy ! 
Here  I  'm  travel-worn, 

Sad,  and  thirsty  very, 


136  BAGATELLE 

And  she  does  not  fetch 
The  Amontillado  sherry ! 

Thank  you,  breath  of  June  ! 

Now  my  heart  beats  free ;  ah, 
Kisses  for  your  hand, 

Mariquita  mia. 
You  shall  live  in  song, 

Warm  and  ripe  and  cheery, 
Mellowing  with  years 

Like  Amontillado  sherry. 

While  the  earth  spins  round 

And  the  stars  lean  over, 
May  this  amber  sprite 

Never  lack  a  lover. 
Blessed  be  the  man 

Who  lured  her  from  the  berry, 
And  blest  the  girl  that  brings 

The  Amontillado  sherry ! 

Sorrow,  get  thee  hence  ! 

Care,  be  gone,  blue  dragon ! 
Only  shapes  of  joy 

Are  sculptured  on  the  flagon. 
Kisses  —  repartees  — 

Lyrics  —  all  that 's  merry 
Rise  to  touch  the  lip 

In  Amontillado  sherry. 


BAGATELLE  137 

Here  be  wit  and  mirth, 

And  love,  the  arch  enchanter; 
Here  the  golden  blood 

Of  saints  in  this  decanter. 
When  pale  Charon  comes 

To  row  me  o'er  his  ferry, 
I  '11  fee  him  with  a  case 

Of  Amontillado  sherry ! 

What !  the  flagon 's  dry  ? 

Hark,  old  Time's  confession  — 
Both  hands  crossed  at  XII, 

Owning  his  transgression ! 
Pray,  old  monk,  for  all 

Generous  souls  and  merry ; 
May  they  have  their  share 

Of  Amontillado  sherry ! 


CARPE   DIEM 

BY  studying  my  lady's  eyes 

I  Ve  grown  so  learned  day  by  day, 

So  Machiavelian  in  this  wise, 

That  when  I  send  her  flowers,  I  say 

To  each  small  flower  (no  matter  what, 
Geranium,  pink,  or  tuberose, 


138  BAGATELLE 

Syringa,  or  forget-me-not, 
Or  violet)  before  it  goes  : 

"  Be  not  triumphant,  little  flower, 
When  on  her  haughty  heart  you  lie, 
But  modestly  enjoy  your  hour : 
She  '11  weary  of  you  by  and  by." 


DANS  LA  BOHfeME 

THE  leafless  branches  snap  with  cold ; 
The  night  is  still,  the  winds  are  laid ; 
And  you  are  sitting,  as  of  old, 
Beside  my  hearth-stone,  heavenly  maid  ! 
What  would  have  chanced  me  all  these  years, 
As  boy  and  man,  had  you  not  come 
And  brought  me  gifts  of  smiles  and  tears 
From  your  Olympian  home  ? 

Dear  Muse,  't  is  twenty  years  or  more 
Since  that  enchanted,  fairy  time 
When  you  came  tapping  at  my  door, 
Your  reticule  stuffed  full  of  rhyme. 
What  strange  things  have  befallen,  indeed, 
Since  then  !     Who  has  the  time  to  say 
What  bards  have  flowered  (and  gone  to  seed) 
Immortal  for  a  day ! 


BAGATELLE  139 

We  Ve  seen  Pretence  with  cross  and  crown, 
And  Folly  caught  in  self-spun  toils ; 
Merit  content  to  pass  unknown, 
And  Honor  scorning  public  spoils  — 
Seen  Bottom  wield  the  critic's  pen 
While  Ariel  sang  in  sunlit  cloud : 
Sometimes  we  wept,  and  now  and  then 
We  could  but  laugh  aloud. 

With  pilgrim  staff  and  sandal-shoon, 

One  time  we  sought  the  Old- World  shrines : 

Saw  Venice  lying  in  the  moon, 

The  Jungfrau  and  the  Apennines ; 

Beheld  the  Tiber  rolling  dark, 

Rent  temples,  fanes,  and  gods  austere ; 

In  English  meadows  heard  the  lark 

That  charmed  her  Shakespeare's  ear. 

What  dreams  and  visions  we  have  had, 
What  tempests  we  have  weathered  through ! 
Been  rich  and  poor,  and  gay  and  sad, 
But  never  hopeless  —  thanks  to  you. 
A  draught  of  water  from  the  brook, 
Or  alt  hochheimer  —  it  was  one  ; 
Whatever  fortune  fell  we  took, 

Children  of  shade  and  sun. 

Though  lacking  gold,  we  never  stooped 
To  pick  it  up  in  all  our  days ; 


O  BAGATELLE 

Though  lacking  praise  we  sometimes  drooped, 

We  never  asked  a  soul  for  praise. 

The  exquisite  reward  of  song 

Was  song  —  the  self-same  thrill  and  glow 

That  to  unfolding  flowers  belong 

And  woodland  thrushes  know ! 

What  gilt-winged  hopes  have  taken  flight, 
And  dropped,  like  Icarus,  in  mid-sky ! 
What  cloudy  days  have  turned  to  bright ! 
What  fateful  years  have  glided  by ! 
What  lips  we  loved  vain  memory  seeks ! 
What  hands  are  cold  that  once  pressed  ours  ! 
What  lashes  rest  upon  the  cheeks 

Beneath  the  snows  and  flowers ! 

We  would  not  wish  them  back  again ; 
The  way  is  rude  from  here  to  there : 
For  us,  the  short-lived  joy  and  pain, 
For  them,  the  endless  rest  from  care, 
The  crown,  the  palm,  the  deathless  youth : 
We  would  not  wish  them  back  —  ah,  no ! 
And  as  for  us,  dear  Muse,  in  truth, 
We  've  but  half  way  to  go. 


BAGATELLE  141 

THE   LUNCH 

A  GOTHIC  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and  uncertain ; 
A  slab  of  rosewood  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance ; 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Black  grapes  hung   down,  dead-ripe   and  without 

lustre ; 

A  melon  cut  in  thin,  delicious  slices  j 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices ; 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey ; 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words,  and  fingers  shyly  meeting. 


IMP  OF  DREAMS 


IMP  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep, 
To  her  snowy  chamber  creep, 
And  straight  whisper  in  her  ear 
What,  awake,  she  will  not  hear  — 

Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep. 


142  BAGATELLE 

II 

Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent, 
That  no  rose  withholds  its  scent, 
That  no  bird  that  has  a  song 
Hoards  the  music  summer-long — 
Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent. 


in 

Tell  her  there  's  naught  else  to  do, 
If  to-morrow's  skies  be  blue, 
But  to  come,  with  civil  speech, 
And  walk  with  me  to  Hampton  Beach  — 
Tell  her  there 's  naught  else  to  do  ! 
Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent  — 

Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep ! 


AN  ELECTIVE  COURSE 

LINES   FOUND   AMONG   THE  PAPERS   OF   A   HARVARD 
UNDERGRADUATE 

THE  bloom  that  lies  on  Hilda's  cheek 

Is  all  my  Latin,  all  my  Greek ; 

The  only  sciences  I  know 

Are  frowns  that  gloom  and  smiles  that  glow ; 


BAGATELLE  143 

Siberia  and  Italy 
Lie  in  her  sweet  geography ; 
No  scholarship  have  I  but  such 
As  teaches  me  to  love  her  much. 

Why  should  I  strive  to  read  the  skies, 
Who  know  the  midnight  of  her  eyes  ? 
Why  should  I  go  so  very  far 
To  learn  what  heavenly  bodies  are  ? 
Not  Berenice's  starry  hair 
With  Hilda's  tresses  can  compare ; 
Not  Venus  on  a  cloudless  night, 
Enslaving  Science  with  her  light, 
Ever  reveals  so  much  as  when 
She  stares  and  droops  her  lids  again. 

If  Nature's  secrets  are  forbidden 
To  mortals,  she  may  keep  them  hidden. 
^Eons  and  aeons  we  progressed 
And  did  not  let  that  break  our  rest ; 
Little  we  cared  if  Mars  o'erhead 
Were  or  were  not  inhabited  ; 
Without  the  aid  of  Saturn's  rings 
Fair  girls  were  wived  in  those  far  springs ; 
Warm  lips  met  ours  and  conquered  us 
Or  ere  thou  wert,  Copernicus  ! 

Graybeards,  who  seek  to  bridge  the  chasm 
Twixt  man  to-day  and  protoplasm, 


144  BAGATELLE 

Who  theorize  and  probe  and  gape, 
And  finally  evolve  an  ape  — 
Yours  is  a  harmless  sort  of  cult, 
If  you  are  pleased  with  the  result. 
Some  folks  admit,  with  cynic  grace, 
That  you  have  rather  proved  your  case. 
These  dogmatists  are  so  severe  ! 
Enough  for  me  that  Hilda  's  here, 
Enough  that,  having  long  survived 
Pre-Eveic  forms,  she  has  arrived  — 
An  illustration  the  completest 
Of  the  survival  of  the  sweetest. 

Linnaeus,  avaunt !     I  only  care 
To  know  what  flower  she  wants  to  wear. 
I  leave  it  to  the  addle-pated 
To  guess  how  pinks  originated, 
As  if  it  mattered  !     The  chief  thing 
Is  that  we  have  them  in  the  Spring, 
And  Hilda  likes  them.     When  they  come, 
I  straightway  send  and  purchase  some. 
The  Origin  of  Plants  —  go  to  ! 
Their  proper  end  /have  in  view. 

The  loveliest  book  that  ever  man 
Looked  into  since  the  world  began 
Is  Woman  !     As  I  turn  those  pages, 
As  fresh  as  in  the  primal  ages, 
As  day  by  day  I  scan,  perplexed, 


BAGATELLE  145 

The  ever  subtly  changing  text, 

I  feel  that  I  am  slowly  growing 

To  think  no  other  work  worth  knowing. 

And  in  my  copy  —  there  is  none 

So  perfect  as  the  one  I  own  — 

I  find  no  thing  set  down  but  such 

As  teaches  me  to  love  it  much. 


PEPITA 

SCARCELY  sixteen  years  old 
Is  Pepita.     (You  understand, 
A  breath  of  this  sunny  land 

Turns  green  fruit  into  gold  : 

A  maiden's  conscious  blood 

In  the  cheek  of  girlhood  glows ; 
A  bud  slips  into  a  rose 

Before  it  is  quite  a  bud.) 

And  I  in  Seville  —  sedate, 
An  American,  with  an  eye 
For  that  strip  of  indigo  sky 

Half-glimpsed  through  a  Moorish  gate 


146  BAGATELLE 

I  see  her,  sitting  up  there, 

With  tortoise-shell  comb  and  fan ; 
Red-lipped,  but  a  trifle  wan, 

Because  of  her  coal-black  hair ; 

And  the  hair  a  trifle  dull, 
Because  of  the  eyes  beneath, 
And  the  radiance  of  her  teeth 

When  her  smile  is  at  its  full ! 

Against  the  balcony  rail 

She  leans,  and  looks  on  the  street ; 

Her  lashes,  long  and  discreet, 
Shading  her  eyes  like  a  veil. 

Held  by  a  silver  dart, 

The  mantilla's  delicate  lace 
Falls  each  side  of  her  face 

And  crosswise  over  her  heart. 

This  is  Pepita  —  this 

Her  hour  for  taking  her  ease : 

A  lover  under  the  trees 
In  the  calk  were  not  amiss ! 

Well,  I  must  needs  pass  by, 

With  a  furtive  glance,  be  it  said, 
At  the  dusk  Murillo  head 

And  the  Andalusian  eye. 


BAGATELLE  14? 

In  the  Plaza  I  hear  the  sounds 

Of  guitar  and  Castanet ; 

Although  it  is  early  yet, 
The  dancers  are  on  their  rounds. 

Softly  the  sunlight  falls 

On  the  slim  Giralda  tower, 

That  now  peals  forth  the  hour 
O'er  broken  ramparts  and  walls. 

Ah,  what  glory  and  gloom 

In  this  Arab- Spanish  town  ! 

What  masonry,  golden-brown, 
And  hung  with  tendril  and  bloom ! 

Place  of  forgotten  kings  !  — 
With  fountains  that  never  play, 
And  gardens  where  day  by  day 

The  lonely  cicada  sings. 

Traces  are  everywhere 

Of  the  dusky  race  that  came, 
And  passed,  like  a  sudden  flame, 

Leaving  their  sighs  in  the  air ! 

Taken  with  things  like  these, 

Pepita  fades  out  of  my  mind : 

Pleasure  enough  I  find 
In  Moorish  column  and  frieze. 


148  BAGATELLE 

And  yet  I  have  my  fears, 

If  this  had  been  long  ago, 

I  might  .  .  .  well,  I  do  not  know  .  .  . 
She  with  her  sixteen  years  ! 


L'EAU  DORMANTE 

CURLED  up  and  sitting  on  her  feet, 

Within  the  window's  deep  embrasure, 
Is  Lydia ;  and  across  the  street, 

A  lad,  with  eyes  of  roguish  azure, 
Watches  her  buried  in  her  book. 
In  vain  he  tries  to  win  a  look, 
And  from  the  trellis  over  there 
Blows  sundry  kisses  through  the  air, 
Which  miss  the  mark,  and  fall  unseen, 
Uncared  for.     Lydia  is  thirteen. 

My  lad,  if  you,  without  abuse, 

Will  take  advice  from  one  who 's  wiser, 
And  put  his  wisdom  to  more  use 

Than  ever  yet  did  your  adviser ; 
If  you  will  let,  as  none  will  do, 
Another's  heartbreak  serve  for  two, 
You  '11  have  a  care,  some  four  years  hence, 


BAGATELLE  149 

How  you  lounge  there  by  yonder  fence 

And  blow  those  kisses  through  that  screen  — 

For  Lydia  will  be  seventeen. 


ECHO   SONG 

WHO  can  say  where  Echo  dwells  ? 
In  some  mountain-cave,  methinks, 
Where  the  white  owl  sits  and  blinks 
Or  in  deep  sequestered  dells, 
Where  the  foxglove  hangs  its  bells, 
Echo  dwells. 
Echo! 

Echo! 

Phantom  of  the  crystal  Air, 
Daughter  of  sweet  Mystery ! 
Here  is  one  has  need  of  thee ; 
Lead  him  to  thy  secret  lair, 
Myrtle  brings  he  for  thy  hair  — 
Hear  his  prayer, 
Echo! 
Echo 

Echo,  lift  thy  drowsy  head, 

And  repeat  each  charmed  word 


ISO  BAGATELLE 

Thou  must  needs  have  overheard 
Yestere'en,  ere,  rosy-red, 
Daphne  down  the  valley  fled  — 
Words  unsaid, 
Echo! 

Echo! 

Breathe  the  vows  she  since  denies ! 
She  hath  broken  every  vow  ; 
What  she  would  she  would  not  now 
Thou  didst  hear  her  perjuries. 
Whisper,  whilst  I  shut  my  eyes, 
Those  sweet  lies, 
Echo! 

Echo! 


THALIA 

A  middle-aged  lyrical  poet  is  supposed  to  be  taking  final  leave  of 
the  Muse  of  Comedy.  She  has  brought  him  his  hat  and  gloves,  and 
is  abstractedly  picking  a  thread  of  gold  hair  from  his  coat  sleeve  as 
he  begins  to  speak : 

I  SAY  it  under  the  rose  — 

oh,  thanks !  —  yes,  under  the  laurel, 
We  part  lovers,  not  foes ; 

we  are  not  going  to  quarrel. 


BAGATELLE  151 

We  have  too  long  been  friends 

on  foot  and  in  gilded  coaches, 

Now  that  the  whole  thing  ends, 

to  spoil  our  kiss  with  reproaches. 

I  leave  you  j  my  soul  is  wrung ; 

I  pause,  look  back  from  the  portal  — 
Ah,  I  no  more  am  young, 

and  you,  child,  you  are  immortal ! 

Mine  is  the  glacier's  way, 

yours  is  the  blossom's  weather  — 
When  were  December  and  May 

known  to  be  happy  together  ? 

Before  my  kisses  grow  tame, 

before  my  moodiness  grieve  you, 

While  yet  my  heart  is  flame, 

and  I  all  lover,  I  leave  you. 

So,  in  the  coming  time, 

when  you  count  the  rich  years  over, 
Think  of  me  in  my  prime, 

and  not  as  a  white-haired  lover, 

Fretful,  pierced  with  regret, 

the  wraith  of  a  dead  Desire 
Thrumming  a  cracked  spinet 

by  a  slowly  dying  fire. 


152  BAGATELLE 

When,  at  last,  I  am  cold  — 

years  hence,  if  the  gods  so  will  it  — 
Say,  "  He  was  true  as  gold," 

and  wear  a  rose  in  your  fillet ! 

Others,  tender  as  I, 

will  come  and  sue  for  caresses, 
Woo  you,  win  you,  and  die  — 

mind  you,  a  rose  in  your  tresses ! 

Some  Melpomene  woo, 

some  hold  Clio  the  nearest ; 

You,  sweet  Comedy  —  you 

were  ever  sweetest  and  dearest ! 

Nay,  it  is  time  to  go. 

When  writing  your  tragic  sister 
Say  to  that  child  of  woe 

how  sorry  I  was  I  missed  her. 

Really,  I  cannot  stay, 

though  "  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow  " 
Perhaps  I  will,  on  my  way 

down-town,  look  in  to-morrow ! 


BAGATELLE  153 

PALINODE 

WHO  is  Lydia,  pray,  and  who 
Is  Hypatia  ?     Softly,  dear, 
Let  me  breathe  it  in  your  ear  — 
They  are  you,  and  only  you. 
And  those  other  nameless  two 
Walking  in  Arcadian  air  — 
She  that  was  so  very  fair  ? 
She  that  had  the  twilight  hair  ?  — 
They  were  you,  dear,  only  you. 
If  I  speak  of  night  or  day, 
Grace  of  fern  or  bloom  of  grape, 
Hanging  cloud  or  fountain  spray, 
Gem  or  star  or  glistening  dew, 
Or  of  mythologic  shape, 
Psyche,  Pyrrha,  Daphne,  say  — 
I  mean  you,  dear,  you,  just  you. 


MERCEDES 


CHARACTERS 

ACHILLE  LOUVOIS  MERCEDES 

LABOISSIERE  URSULA 

PADRE  JOSEF  SERGEANT  and  SOLDIERS 

Scene,  SPAIN        Period,  1810 
ACT   I 

A  detachment  of  French  troops  bivouacked  on  the  edge  of  the  forest 
of  Covelleda  —  A  sentinel  is  seen  on  the  cliffs  overhanging  the 
camp  —  The  guard  is  relieved  in  dumb  show  as  the  dialogue  pro- 
gresses—  Louvois  and  Laboissiere,  wrapped  in  greatcoats,  are 
seated  by  a  smouldering  fire  of  brushwood  in  the  foreground — 
Starlight. 

SCENE  I 
Louvois,  LABOISSIERE 

LABOISSIERE 

Louvois ! 

LOUVOIS,  starting  front  a  reverie 

Eh  ?     What  is  it  ?     I  must  have  slept. 

LABOISSIERE 

With  eyes  staring  at  nothing,  like  an  Egyptian 
idol !     This  is  not  amusing.     You  are  as  gloomy 
to-night  as  an  undertaker  out  of  employment. 
155 


IS6  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

Say,  rather,  an  executioner  who  loathes  his  trade. 
No,  I  was  not  asleep.  I  cannot  sleep  with  this 
business  on  my  conscience. 

LABOISSI&RE 

In  affairs  like  this,  conscience  goes  to  the  rear 
—  with  the  sick  and  wounded. 

LOUVOIS 

One  may  be  forgiven,  or  can  forgive  himself, 
many  a  cruel  thing  done  in  the  heat  of  battle ;  but 
to  steal  upon  a  defenceless  village,  and  in  cold 
blood  sabre  old  men,  women,  and  children  —  that 
revolts  me. 

LABOISSIERE 

What  must  be,  must  be. 

LOUVOIS 
Yes  —  the  poor  wretches. 

LABOISSIERE 

The  orders  are 

LOUVOIS 
Every  soul ! 


MERCEDES  157 

LABOISSIERE 

They  have  brought  it  upon  themselves,  if  that 
comforts  them.  Every,  defile  in  these  infernal 
mountains  bristles  with  carabines ;  every  village 
gives  shelter  or  warning  to  the  guerrillas.  The 
army  is  being  decimated  by  assassination.  It  is 
the  same  ghastly  story  throughout  Castile  and 
Estremadura.  After  we  have  taken  a  town  we 
lose  more  men  than  it  cost  us  to  storm  it.  I  would 
rather  look  into  the  throat  of  a  battery  at  forty 
paces  than  attempt  to  pass  through  certain  streets 
in  Madrid  or  Burgos  after  nightfall.  You  go  in  at 
one  end,  but,  diantre  !  you  don't  come  out  at  the 
other. 

LOUVOIS 

What  would  you  have  ?  It  is  life  or  death  with 
these  people. 

LABOISSIERE 

I  would  have  them  fight  like  Christians.  Poison- 
ing wells  and  water-courses  is  not  fighting,  and 
assassination  is  not  war.  Some  such  blow  as  we 
are  about  to  strike  is  the  sort  of  rude  surgery  the 
case  demands. 

LOUVOIS 

Certainly  the  French  army  on  the  Peninsula  is  in 
a  desperate  strait.  The  men  are  worn  out  contend- 


158  MERCEDES 

ing  against  shadows,  and  disheartened  by  victories 
that  prove  more  disastrous  than  defeats  in  other 
lands. 

LABOISSIERE 

It  is  the  devil's  own  country.  The  very  birds 
here  have  no  song.1  Even  the  cigars  are  damna- 
ble. Will  you  have  one  ? 

LOUVOIS 
Thanks,  no. 

LABOISSIERE,  after  a  pause 

This  village  of  Arguano  which  we  are  to  disci- 
pline, as  the  brave  Junot  would  say,  is  it  much  of 
a  village  ? 

LOUVOIS 

No  j  an  insignificant  hamlet  —  one  wide  calle  with 
a  zigzag  line  of  stucco  houses  on  each  side ;  a  po- 
sada,  and  a  forlorn  chapel  standing  like  an  over- 
grown tombstone  in  the  middle  of  the  cemetery. 
In  the  market-place,  three  withered  olive-trees. 
On  a  hilltop  overlooking  all,  a  windmill  of  the 
time  of  Don  Quixote.  In  brief,  the  regulation 
Spanish  village. 

1  Except  in  a  few  provinces,  singing-birds  are  rare  in  Spain, 
owing  to  the  absence  of  woodland. 


MERCEDES  159 

LABOISSIERE 

You  have  been  there,  then  ?  —  with  your  three 
withered  olive-trees ! 

LOUVOIS,  slowly 

Yes,  I  have  been  there  .  .  . 

LABOISSIERE,  aside 

He  has  that  same  odd  look  in  his  eyes  which 
has  puzzled  me  these  two  days.  (Aloud)  If  I  have 
touched  a  wrong  chord,  pardon !  You  have  un- 
pleasant associations  with  the  place. 

LOUVOIS 

I  ?  Oh  no ;  on  the  contrary  I  have  none  but 
agreeable  memories  of  Arguano.  I  was  quartered 
there,  or  rather,  in  the  neighborhood,  for  several 
weeks  a  year  or  two  ago.  I  was  recovering  from 
a  wound  at  the  time,  and  the  air  of  that  valley 
did  me  better  service  than  a  platoon  of  surgeons. 
Then  the  villagers  were  simple,  honest  folk  —  for 
Spaniards.  Indeed,  they  were  kindly  folk.  I  re- 
member the  old  padre  j  he  was  not  half  a  bad  fel- 
low, though  I  have  no  love  for  the  long-gowns. 
With  his  scant  black  soutane,  and  his  thin  white 
hair  brushed  behind  his  ears  under  a  skull-cap,  he 
somehow  reminded  me  of  my  old  mother  in  Lan- 
guedoc,  and  we  were  good  comrades.  We  used 
now  and  then  to  empty  a  bottle  of  Valdepefias  to- 


160  MERCEDES 

gether  in  the  shady  posada  garden.  The  native 
wine  here,  when  you  get  it  pure,  is  better  than  it 
promises. 

LABOISSlfeRE 

Why,  that  was  consorting  with  the  enemy  !  The 
Church  is  our  deadliest  foe  now.  Since  the  bull 
of  Pius  VII.,  excommunicating  the  Emperor,  we  all 
are  heretical  dogs  in  Spanish  eyes.  His  Holiness 
has  made  murder  a  short  cut  to  heaven.1  By  pon- 
iarding or  poisoning  a  Frenchman,  these  fanatics 
fancy  that  they  insure  their  infinitesimal  souls. 

LOUVOIS  rises 

Yes,  they  believe  that ;  yet  when  all  is  said,  I 
have  no  great  thirst  for  this  poor  padre's  blood. 
If  the  marechal  had  only  turned  over  to  me  some 
other  village !  No  —  I  do  not  mean  what  I  say. 

1  In  Andalusia,  and  in  fact  throughout  Spain  at  that  period, 
the  priests  taught  the  children  a  catechism  of  which  this  is  a 
specimen :  "  How  many  Emperors  of  the  French  are  there  ? " 
"One  actually,  in  three  deceiving  persons."  —  "What  are 
they  called?"  "Napoleon,  Murat,  and  Manuel  Godoy, 
Prince  of  the  Peace."  —  "  Which  is  the  most  wicked  ? "  u  They 
are  all  equally  so."  —  "  What  are  the  French  ? "  "  Apostate 
Christians  turned  heretics."  —  "What  punishment  does  a 
Spaniard  deserve  who  fails  in  his  duty  ? "  "  The  death  and 
infamy  of  a  traitor."  — "  Is  it  a  sin  to  kill  a  Frenchman  ?  " 
"No,  my  father;  heaven  is  gained  by  killing  one  of  these 
heretical  dogs." 


MERCEDES  161 

Since  the  work  was  to  be  done,  it  was  better  I 
should  do  it.  There 's  a  fatality  in  sending  me  to 
Arguano.  Remember  that.  From  the  moment  the 
order  came  from  headquarters  I  have  had  such  a 
heaviness  here.  (Pauses)  Awhile  ago,  in  a  half  doze, 
I  dreamed  of  cutting  down  this  harmless  old  priest 
who  had  come  to  me  to  beg  mercy  for  the  women 
and  children.  I  cut  him  across  the  face,  Labois- 
siere !  I  saw  him  still  smiling,  with  his  lip  slashed 
in  two.  The  irony  of  it !  When  I  think  of  that 
smile  I  am  tempted  to  break  my  sword  over  my 
knee,  and  throw  myself  into  the  ravine  yonder. 

LABOISSlfeRE,  aside 

This  is  the  man  who  got  the  cross  for  sabring 
three  gunners  in  the  trench  at  Saragossa!  It  is 
droll  he  should  be  so  moved  by  the  idea  of  killing 
a  beggarly  old  Jesuit  more  or  less.  (Aloud)  Bah ! 
it  was  only  a  dream,  voild  tout — one  of  those 
villainous  nightmares  which  run  wild  over  these 
hills.  I  have  been  .kicked  by  them  myself  many  a 
time.  What,  the  devil !  dreams  always  go  by  con- 
traries ;  in  which  case  you  will  have  the  satisfaction 
of  being  knocked  on  the  head  by  the  venerable 
padre  —  and  so  quits.  It  may  come  to  that.  Who 
knows?  We  are  surrounded  by  spies;  I  would 
wager  a  week's  rations  that  Arguano  is  prepared 
for  us. 


162  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

If  I  thought  that!  An  assault  with  resistance 
would  cover  all.  Yes,  yes  —  the  spies.  They  must 
be  aware  of  our  destination  and  purpose.  A  move- 
ment such  as  this  could  not  have  been  made  unob- 
served. (Abruptly)  Laboissiere ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Well? 

LOUVOIS 

There  was  a  certain  girl  at  Arguano,  a  niece  or 
god-daughter  to  the  old  padre  —  a  brave  girl. 

LABOISSIERE 

Ah  —  so?  Come  now,  confess,  my  captain,  it 
was  the  sobrina,  and  not  the  old  priest,  you  struck 
down  in  your  dream. 

LOUVOIS 
Yes,  that  was  it.     How  did  you  know  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

By  instinct  and  observation.  There  is  always  a 
woman  at  the  bottom  of  everything.  You  have 
only  to  go  deep  enough. 

LOUVOIS 
This  girl  troubles  me.    -I  was  ordered  from  Ar- 


MERCEDES  163 

guano  without  an  instant's  warning  —  at  midnight 
—  between  two  breaths,  as  it  were.  Then  commu- 
nication with  the  place  was  cut  off.  ...  I  have 
never  heard  word  of  her  since. 

LABOISSlfeRE 

So  ?     Did  you  love  her  ? 

LOUVOIS 
I  have  not  said  that. 

LABOISSIERE 

Speak  your  thought,  and  say  it.  I  ever  loved  a 
love-story,  when  it  ran  as  clear  as  a  trout-brook  and 
had  the  right  heart-leaps  in  it.  With  this  wind 
sighing  in  the  tree-tops,  and  these  heavy  stars 
drooping  over  us,  it  is  the  very  place  and  hour  for 
a  bit  of  romance.  Come,  now. 

LOUVOIS 
It  was  all  of  a  romance. 

LABOISSIERE 

I  knew  it !     I  will  begin  for  you :  You  loved  her. 

LOUVOIS 

Yes,  I  loved  her.  It  was  the  good  God  that  sent 
her  to  my  bedside.  She  nursed  me  day  and  night. 
She  brought  me  back  to  life.  ...  I  know  not  how 


164  MERCEDES 

it  happened ;  the  events  have  no  sequence  in  my 
memory.  I  had  been  wounded ;  I  dropped  from 
the  saddle  as  we  entered  the  village,  and  was  car- 
ried for  dead  into  one  of  the  huts.  Then  the  fever 
took  me.  .  .  .  Day  after  day  I  plunged  from  one 
black  abyss  into  another,  my  wits  quite  gone.  At 
odd  intervals  I  was  conscious  of  some  one  bending 
over  me.  Now  it  seemed  to  be  a  demon,  and  now 
a  white-hooded  sister  of  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Paris. 
Oftener  it  was  that  madonna  above  the  altar  in  the 
old  mosque  at  Cordova.  Such  strange  fancies  take 
men  with  gunshot  wounds.  One  night  I  awoke  in 
my  senses,  and  there  she  sat,  with  her  fathomless 
eyes  fixed  upon  my  face,  like  a  statue  of  Pity.  You 
know  those  narrow,  melting  eyes  these  women  have, 
with  a  dash  of  Arab  fire  in  them  .  .  . 

LABOISSIERE 

Know  them  ?     Sacrebleu ! 

LOUVOIS 

The  first  time  I  walked  out,  she  led  me  by  the 
hand,  I  was  so  very  weak,  like  a  little  child  learn- 
ing to  walk.  It  was  spring,  the  skies  were  blue, 
the  almonds  were  in  blossom,  the  air  was  like  wine. 
Great  heaven !  how  beautiful  and  fresh  the  world 
was,  as  if  God  had  just  made  it !  From  time  to 
time  I  leaned  upon  her  shoulder,  not  thinking 
of  her.  .  .  .  Later  I  came  to  know  her  —  a  saint 


MERCEDES  165 

in  disguise,  a  peasant-girl  with  the  instincts  of  a 

duchess. 

LABOISSIERE 

They  are  always  like  that,  saints  and  duchesses 
—  by  brevet !  I  fell  in  with  her  own  sister  at  Bar- 
celona. Look  you  —  braids  of  purple-black  hair 
and  the  complexion  of  a  newly-minted  napoleon. 
I  forget  her  name.  (Knitting  his  brows)  Paquita  .  .  . 
Mariquita  ?  It  was  something-quita,  but  no  matter. 

LOUVOIS 

How  it  all  comes  back  to  me !  The  wild  foot- 
paths in  the  haunted  forest  of  Covelleda ;  the 
broken  Moorish  water-tank,  in  the  plaza,  against 
which  we  leaned  to  watch  the  gypsy  dances ;  the 
worn  stone  step  of  the  cottage,  where  we  sat  of 
evenings  with  guitar  and  cigarette.  What  simple 
things  make  a  man  forget  that  his  grave  lies  in 
front  of  him  !  (Pauses)  There  was  a  lover,  a  contra- 
bandista,  or  something  —  a  fellow  who  might  have 
played  the  spadassin  in  one  of  Lope  de  Vega's 
cloak-and-dagger  comedies.  The  gloom  of  the  lad, 
fingering  his  stiletto-hilt !  Presently  she  sent  him 
to  the  right-about,  him  and  his  scowls  —  the  poor 
devil.  A  certain  Pedro  Mendez. 

LABOISSIERE 

Oh,  a  very  bad  case ! 


166  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

I  would  not  have  any  hurt  befall  that  girl,  Labois- 
siere ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Surely. 

LOUVOIS 

And  there 's  no  human  way  to  warn  her  of  her 
danger ! 

LABOISSIERE 

To  warn  her  would  be  to  warn  the  village  —  and 
defeat  our  end.  However,  no  French  messenger 
could  reach  the  place  alive. 

LOUVOIS 

And  no  other  is  possible.  Now  you  understand 
my  misery.  I  am  ready  to  go  mad. 

LABOISSIERE 

You  take  the  thing  too  seriously.  Nothing  ever 
is  so  bad  as  it  looks,  except  a  Spanish  ragotit. 
After  all,  it  is  not  likely  that  a  single  soul  is  left  in 
Arguano.  The  very  leaves  of  this  dismal  forest  are 
lips  that  whisper  of  our  movements.  The  villagers 
have  doubtless  made  off  with  that  fine  store  of  grain 
and  aguardiente  we  so  sorely  stand  in  need  of,  and 
a  score  or  two  of  the  brigands  are  probably  lying 
in  wait  for  us  in  some  narrow  canon. 


MERCEDES  167 

LOUVOIS 

God  will  it  so  ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Louvois,  if  the  girl  is  at  Arguano,  not  a  hair  of 
her  head  shall  be  harmed,  though  I  am  shot  for  it 
when  we  get  back  to  Burgos  ! 

LOUVOIS 

You  are  a  brave  soul,  Laboissiere  !  Your  words 
have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  bosom.  Without 
your  aid  I  should  be  powerless  to  save  her. 

LABOISSIERE 

Are  we  not  comrades,  we  who  have  fought  side 
by  side  these  six  months,  and  lain  together  night 
after  night  with  this  blue  arch  for  our  tent-roof? 
Dismiss  your  anxiety.  What  is  that  Gascogne 
proverb?  —  "We  suffer  most  from  the  ills  that 
never  happen."  Let  us  get  some  rest;  we  have 
had  a  rude  day.  .  .  .  See,  the  stars  have  doubled 
their  pickets  out  there  to  the  westward. 

LOUVOIS 

You  are  right ;  we  should  sleep.  We  march  at 
daybreak.  Good-night. 

LABOISSIERE 

Good-night,  and  vive  la  France  / 


168  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 

Vive  T Empereur  ! 

LABOISSlfeRE  walks  away  humming 

"  Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  !  " 

LOUVOIS,  looking  after  him 

There  goes  a  light  heart.     But  mine  .  .  .  mine  is 
as  heavy  as  lead. 


SCENE  II 

LYRICAL  INTERLUDE 
Soldiers'  Song 

While  this  is  being  sung  behind  the  scenes  the  guard  is  relieved  on 
the  cliffs.  Louvois  wraps  his  cloak  around  him  and  falls  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 

The  camp  is  hushed  ;  the  fires  burn  low ; 
Like  ghosts  the  sentries  come  and  go : 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  upon  the  height 
A  keen  drawn  sabre  glimmers  white. 
Swiftly  the  midnight  steals  away  — 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 

Perchance  into  your  dream  shall  come 
Visions  of  love  or  thoughts  of  home ; 


MERCEDES  .169 

The  furtive  night  wind,  hurrying  by, 
Shall  kiss  away  the  half-breathed  sigh, 
And  softly  whispering,  seem  to  say, 
Reposez-vous,  bans  chevaliers  ! 

Through  star-lit  dusk  and  shimmering  dew 
It  is  your  lady  comes  to  you  ! 
Delphine,  Lisette,  Annette  —  who  knows 
By  what  sweet  wayward  name  she  goes  ? 
Wrapped  in  white  arms  till  break  of  day, 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  song  the  stage  is  gradually  darkened  and 
the  scene  changed. 


ACT  II 

Morning  —  The  interior  of  a  stone  hut  in  Arguano  —  Through  the 
door  opening  upon  the  calle  are  seen  piles  of  Indian  corn,  sheaves 
of  wheat,  and  loaves  of  bread  partly  consumed  —  Empty  wine-skins 
are  scattered  here  and  there  among  the  cinders  —  In  one  corner 
of  the  chamber,  which  is  low-studded  but  spacious,  an  old  woman 
is  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  and  crooning  to  herself  —  At  the  left,  a 
settle  stands  against  the  wall  —  In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  child 
lies  asleep  in  a  cradle— Mercedes  — Padre  Jos6f  entering  ab- 
ruptly. 

SCENE  I 
MERCEDES,  PADRE  JOSEF,  then  URSULA 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Mercedes !  daughter  !  are  you  mad  to  linger  so  ? 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  father,  it  is  you  who  are  mad  to  come  back. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

We  were  nearly  a  mile  from  the  village  when  I 
missed  you  and  the  child.  I  had  stopped  at  your 
cottage  and  found  no  one.  I  thought  you  were 
with  those  who  had  started  at  sunrise. 


MERCEDES  171 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  I  brought  Chiquita  here  last  night  when  I 
heard  the  French  were  coming. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Quick,  Mercedes  !  there  is  not  an  instant  to  waste. 

MERCEDES 

Then   hasten,  Padre  Jose'f,  while  there   is  yet 

time.  [Pushes  him  towards  the  door 

PADRE  JOSEF 

And  you,  child  ? 

MERCEDES 

I  shall  stay. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Listen  to  her,  Sainted  Virgin !  she  will  stay,  and 
the  French  bloodhounds  at  our  very  heels ! 

MERCEDES,  glancing  at  Ursula 

Could  I  leave  old  Ursula,  and  she  not  able  to 
climb  the  mountain?  Think  you  —  my  own  flesh 
and  blood ! 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Ah,  cielo!  true.  They  have  forgotten  her,  the 
cowards!  and  now  it  is  too  late.  God  willed  it  — 


172  MERCEDES 

santificado  sea  tu  nombre !  (Hesitates)  Mercedes,  Ur- 
sula is  old  —  very  old ;  the  better  part  of  her  is 
already  dead.  See  how  she  laughs  and  mumbles 
to  herself,  and  knows  naught  of  what  is  passing. 

MERCEDES 

The  poor  grandmother  !  she  thinks  it  is  a  saint's 

day.  [Seats  herself  on  the  settle 

PADRE  JOSEF 

What  is  life  or  death  to  her  whose  soul  is  other- 
where ?  What  is  a  second  more  or  less  to  the  leaf 
that  clings  to  a  shrunken  bough  ?  But  you,  Mer- 
cedes, the  long  summer  smiles  for  such  as  you. 
Think  of  yourself,  think  of  Chiquita.  Come  with 
me,  child,  come ! 

URSULA 

Ay,  ay,  go  with  the  good  padre,  dear.  There  is 
dancing  on  the  plaza.  The  gitanos  are  there,  may- 
hap. I  hear  the  music.  I  had  ever  an  ear  for  tam- 
bourines and  castanets.  When  I  was  a  slip  of  a 
girl,  I  used  to  foot  it  with  the  best  in  the  cachuca 
and  the  bolera.  I  was  a  merry  jade,  Mercedes  — 
a  merry  jade.  Wear  your  broidered  garters,  dear. 

MERCEDES 

She  hears  music.  (Listens)  No.  Her  mind  wan- 
ders strangely  to-day,  now  here,  now  there.  The 


MERCEDES  173 

gray   spirits    are   with    her.     (To  Ursula  gently)     No, 
grandmother,  I  came  to  stay  with  you,  I  and  Chi- 

qilita.  [Crosses  over  to  Ursula. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

You  are  mad,  Mercedes.  They  will  murder  you 
all. 

MERCEDES 

They  will  not  have  the  heart  to  harm  Chiquita, 
nor  me,  perchance,  for  her  sake. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

They  have  no  hearts,  these  Frenchmen.  Ah, 
Mercedes,  do  you  not  know  better  than  most  that 
a  Frenchman  has  no  heart?  [Points  to  the  cradle 

MERCEDES,  hastily 

I  know  nothing.  I  shall  stay.  Is  life  so  sweet 
to  me  ?  Go,  Padre  Jose'f.  What  could  save  you 
if  they  found  you  here  ?  Not  your  priest's  gown. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

You  will  follow,  my  daughter  ? 

MERCEDES 

No. 

PADRE  JOSE> 

I  beseech  you ! 


174  MERCEDES 

MERCEDES 

No. 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Then  you  are  lost ! 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  padrino,  God  is  everywhere.  Have  you  not 
yourself  said  it?  Lay  your  hands  for  a  moment 
on  my  head,  as  you  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  little 

Child,  and  gO gO  !  \_Kneeh 

PADRE  JOSEF 

Thou  wert  ever  a  wilful  girl,  Mercedes. 

MERCEDES 

Oh,  say  not  so ;  but  quick  —  your  blessing,  quick  ! 

PADRE  JOSEF 

A   Dios.  .  .  . 

He  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  Mercedes'  forehead,  and 
slowly  turns  away.  Mercedes  rises,  follows  him  to  the 
door,  and  looks  after  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then 
she  returns  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  sits  on  a  low 
stool  beside  the  cradle. 


MERCEDES  175 

SCENE  II 
MERCEDES,  URSULA 

URSULA,  after  a  silence 

Has  he  gone,  the  good  padre? 

MERCEDES 

Yes,  dear  soul. 

URSULA,  reflectively 

He  was  your  uncle  once. 

MERCEDES 

Once  ?     Yes,  and  always.     How  you  speak  ! 

URSULA 

He  is  not  gay  any  more,  the  good  padre.     He  is 
getting  old  ...  getting  old. 

MERCEDES 

To   hear  her!  and   she   eighty  years   last   San 
Miguel's  day ! 

URSULA 
What  day  is  it  ? 

MERCEDES,  laying  one  finger  on  her  li$s 

Hist !     Chiquita  is  waking. 


176  MERCEDES 

URSULA,  qrterulously 

Hist  ?  Nay,  I  will  say  my  say  in  spite  of  all. 
Hist  ?  God  save  us  !  who  taught  thee  to  say  hist 
to  thy  elders?  Ay,  ay,  who  taught  thee?  .  .  . 
What  day  is  it  ? 

MERCEDES,  aside 

How  sharp  she  is  awhiles !  (Aloud)  Pardon, 
pardon !  Here  is  little  Chiquita,  with  both  eyes 
wide  open,  to  help  me  beg  thy  forgiveness.  (Bends 
over  the  cradle)  See,  she  has  a  smile  for  grandmother. 
.  .  .  Ah,  no,  little  one,  I  have  no  milk  for  thee; 
the  trouble  has  taken  it  all.  Nay,  cry  not,  dainty, 
or  that  will  break  my  heart. 

URSULA 

Sing  to  her,  nieta.  What  is  it  you  sing  that 
always  hushes  her  ?  'T  is  gone  from  me. 

MERCEDES 

I  know  not. 

URSULA 
Bethink  thee. 

MERCEDES 

I  cannot  Ah  —  the  rhyme  of  The  Three  Little 
White  Teeth  ? 


MERCEDES  177 

URSULA,  clapping  her  hands 

Ay,  ay,  that  is  it ! 

MERCEDES  rocks  the  child,  and  sings 

Who  is  it  opens  her  blue  bright  eye, 
Bright  as  the  sea  and  blue  as  the  sky?  — 

Chiquita ! 

Who  has  the  smile  that  comes  and  goes 
Like  sunshine  over  her  mouth's  red  rose  ?  — 

Muchachita  / 

What  is  the  softest  laughter  heard, 
Gurgle  of  brook  or  trill  of  bird, 

Chiquita  ? 

Nay,  't  is  thy  laughter  makes  the  rill 
Hush  its  voice  and  the  bird  be  still, 

Muchachita  ! 

Ah,  little  flower-hand  on  my  breast, 
How  it  soothes  me  and  gives  me  rest ! 

Chiquita ! 

What  is  the  sweetest  sight  I  know  ? 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 

Muchachita  ! 

As  Mercedes  finishes  the  song,  a  roll  of  drums  is  heard  in  the 
calle.  At  the  first  tap  she  starts  and  listens  intently,  then 
assumes  a  stolid  air.  The  sound  approaches  the  door  and 
suddenly  ceases. 


178  MERCEDES 

SCENE  III 
LABOISSIERE,  MERCEDES,  then  SOLDIERS 

LABOISSIERE,  outside 

A  sergeant  and  two  men  to  follow  me !  (Mutters} 
Curse  me  if  there  is  so  much  as  a  mouse  left  in  the 
whole  village.  Not  a  drop  of  wine,  and  the  bread 

burnt  tO  a  Crisp the  sdtiratS  !    (Appears  at  the  threshold) 

Hulloa !  what  is  this  ?  An  old  woman  and  a  young 
one  —  an  Andalusian  by  the  arch  of  her  instep  and 
the  length  of  her  eyelashes  !  (/»  Spanish)  Girl,  what 
are  you  doing  here  ? 

MERCEDES,  in  French 

Where  should  I  be,  monsieur  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

You  speak  French  ? 

MERCEDES 

Caramba !  since  you  speak  Spanish. 

LABOISSIERE 

It  was  out  of  politeness.  But  talk  your  own  jar- 
gon —  it  is  a  language  that  turns  to  honey  on  the 
tongue  of  a  pretty  woman.  (Aside)  It  was  my  luck 
to  unearth  the  only  woman  in  the  place  !  The  cap- 
tain's white  blackbird  has  flown,  bag  and  baggage, 


MERCEDES  179 

thank  Heaven  !  Poor  Louvois,  what  a  grim  face 
he  made  over  the  empty  nest !  (Aloud)  Your  neigh- 
bors have  gone.  Why  are  you  not  with  them  ? 

MERCEDES,  jointing  to  Ursula 

It  is  my  grandmother,  senor ;  she  is  very  old. 

LABOISSIERE 

So  ?  You  could  not  carry  her  off,  and  you  re- 
mained ? 

MERCEDES 

Precisely. 

LABOISSIERE 

That  was  like  a  brave  girl.  (Touching his  cap)  I  sa- 
lute valor  whenever  I  meet  it.  Why  have  all  the 
villagers  fled  ? 

MERCEDES 

Did  they  wish  to  be  massacred  ? 

LABOISSIERE,  shrugging  his  shoulders 

And  you  ? 

MERCEDES 

It  would  be  too  much  glory  for  a  hundred  and 
eighty  French  soldiers  to  kill  one  poor  peasant  girl. 
And  then  to  come  so  far ! 


i8o  MERCEDES 

LABOISSIERE,  aside 

She  knows  our  very  numbers,  the  fox !  How 
she  shows  her  teeth ! 

MERCEDES 

Besides,  sefior,  one  can  die  but  once. 

LABOISSIERE 

That  is  often  enough.  —  Why  did  your  people 
waste  the  bread  and  wine  ? 

MERCEDES 

That  yours  might  neither  eat  the  one  nor  drink 
the  other.  We  do  not  store  food  for  our  ene- 
mies. 

LABOISSIERE 

They  could  not  take  away  the  provisions,  so  they 
destroyed  them  ? 

MERCEDES,  mockingly 

Nothing  escapes  you ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Is  that  your  child  ? 

MERCEDES 

Yes,  the  hija  is  mine. 


MERCEDES  181 

LABOISSIERE 

Where  is  your  husband  —  with  t^e  brigands  yon- 
der? 

MERCEDES 

My  husband  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

Your  lover,  then. 

MERCEDES 

I  have  no  lover.     My  husband  is  dead. 

LABOISSIERE 

I  think  you  are  lying  now.     He 's  a  guerrilla. 

MERCEDES 

If  he  were,  I  should  not  deny  it.  What  Spanish 
woman  would  rest  her  cheek  upon  the  bosom  that 
has  not  a  carabine  pressed  against  it  this  day  ?  It 
were  better  to  be  a  soldier's  widow  than  a  coward's 
wife. 

LABOISSIERE,  aside 

The  little  demon  !  But  she  is  ravishing !  She 
would  have  upset  St.  Anthony,  this  one  —  if  he  had 
belonged  to  the  Second  Chasseurs !  What  is  to 
be  done  ?  Theoretically,  I  am  to  pass  my  sword 
through  her  body;  practically,  I  shall  make  love 


182  MERCEDES 

to  her  in  ten  minutes  more,  though  her  readiness  to 
become  a  widow  is  not  altogether  pleasing.  (Aloud) 
Here,  sergeant,  go  report  this  matter  to  the  cap- 
tain. He  is  in  the  posada  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
square. 

Exit  sergeant.  Shouts  of  exultation  and  laughter  are  heard 
outside,  and  presently  three  or  four  soldiers  enter,  bearing 
hams  and  a  skin  of  wine.  Mercedes  gives  a  start. 

FIRST   SOLDIER 

Voila,  lieutenant ! 

LABOISSIERE 

Where  did  you  get  that  ? 

SECOND  SOLDIER 

In  a  cellar  hard  by,  hidden  under  some  rushes. 

THIRD   SOLDIER 

There  are  five  more  skins  of  wine  like  this  jolly 
fellow  in  his  leather  jacket.  Pray  order  a  division 
of  the  booty,  my  lieutenant,  for  we  are  as  dry  as 
herrings  in  a  box. 

LABOISSIERE 
A  moment,    my  braves.       (Looks  at  Mercedes  significantly) 

Woman,  is  that  wine  good  ? 

MERCEDES 

The  vintage  was  poor  this  year,  senor. 


MERCEDES  183 

LABOISSIERE 

I  mean  —  is  that  wine  good  for  a  Frenchman  to 
drink  ? 

MERCEDES 

Why  not,  senor  ? 

LABOISSIERE,  sternly 

Yes  or  no  ? 

MERCEDES 

Yes. 

LABOISSIERE 

Why  was  it  not  served  like  the  rest,  then  ? 

MERCEDES 

They  hid  a  few  skins,  thinking  to  come  back  for 
it  when  you  were  gone.  An  ill  thing  does  not  last 
forever. 

LABOISSIERE 

Open  it,  some  one,  and  fetch  me  a  glass.  (TO 
Mercedes)  You  will  drink  this. 

MERCEDES,  coldly 

When  I  am  thirsty  I  drink. 

LABOISSIERE 

Pardieu !  this  time  you  shall  drink  because  /  am 
thirsty. 


184  MERCEDES 

MERCEDES 

As  you  will.     (Empties  the  glass)    To  the  King. 

LABOISSIERE 

That  was  an  impudent  toast.  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred the  Emperor  or  even  Godoy ;  but  no  matter 
—  each  after  his  kind.  To  whom  will  the  small- 
bones  drink? 

MERCEDES 

The  child,  senor  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

Yes,  the  child  ;  she  is  pale  and  sickly-looking ;  a 
draught  will  do  her  no  harm.  All  the  same,  she 
will  grow  up  and  make  some  man  wretched. 

MERCEDES 

But,  senor 

LABOISSIERE 

Do  you  hear  ? 

MERCEDES 

But  Chiquita,  senor  —  she  is  so  little,  only  thir- 
teen months  old,  and  the  wine  is  strong ! 

LABOISSIERE 

She  shall  drink. 


MERCEDES  185 

MERCEDES 

No,  no ! 

LABOISSIERE 

I  have  said  it,  sacre  nom 

MERCEDES 

Give  it  me,  then.  (Takes  the  glass  and  holds  it  to  the  child"1* 
lips} 

LABOISSIERE,  watching  her  closely 

Woman  !  your  hand  trembles. 

MERCEDES 

Nay,  it  is  Chiquita  swallows  so  fast.  See !  she 
has  taken  it  all.  Ah,  senor,  it  is  a  sad  thing  to 
have  no  milk  for  the  little  one.  Are  you  content  ? 

LABOISSIERE 

Yes ;  I  now  see  that  the  men  may  quench  their 
thirst  without  fear.  One  cannot  be  too  cautious  in 
this  hospitable  country  !  Fall  to,  my  children  ;  but 
first,  a  glass  for  your  lieutenant.  {Drinks 

URSULA 

Ay,  ay,  the  young  forget  the  old  .  .  .  forget  the 
old. 

LABOISSIERE,  laughing 

Why,  the  depraved  old  sorceress !     But  she  is 


186  MERCEDES 

right.  She  should  have  her  share.  Place  aux 
dames!  A  cup,  somebody,  for  Madame  la  Dia- 
blesse ! 

MERCEDES,  aside 

Jose-Maria ! . 

One  of  the  men  carries  wine  to  Ursula.  Mercedes  sits  on 
the  stool  beside  the  cradle,  resting  her  forehead  on  her 
palms.  Laboissiere  stretches  himself  on  the  settle.  Sev- 
eral soldiers  come  in,  and  fill  their  canteens  from  the  wine- 
skin. They  stand  in  groups,  talking  in  undertones  among 
themselves. 

URSULA  rises  from  her  chair 

The  drink  has  warmed  me  to  the  heart,  Mer- 
cedes !  Said  I  not  there  was  dancing  on  the  plaza  ? 
'T  is  but  a  step  from  here.  'T  would  do  these  old 
eyes  good  to  look  once  more  upon  the  dancers. 
The  music  drags  me  yonder !  (Wander -ingiy)  Nay, 
take  away  your  hands,  Mercedes  —  a  plague  upon 

ye  !  [Goes  out 

LABOISSIERE  suddenly  starts  to  his  feet  and  dashes  his  glass  on  the  floor 

The  child!  look  at  the  child!  What  is  the 
matter  with  it  ?  It  turns  livid  —  it  is  dying !  Com- 
rades, we  are  poisoned ! 

MERCEDES   rises  hastily  and  throws  her  mantilla  over  the  cradle 

Yes,  you  are  poisoned!  Al  fuego  —  al fuego  — 
todos  al  fuego  71  You  to  perdition,  we  to  heaven ! 

[  The  soldiers  advance  towards  Mercedes 

1  To  the  flames  —  to  the  flames  — all  of  you  to  the  flames ! 


MERCEDES  187 

LABOISSIERE,  interposing 

Leave  her  to  me  !  Quick,  some  of  you,  go  warn 
the  others  !  (Unsheathes  his  sword)  I  end  where  I  ought 
to  have  begun. 

MERCEDES,  tearing  aside  her  neckerchief 

Strike  here,  senor.  .  .  . 


LOUVOIS  enters,  and  halts  bet-ween  the  two  with  a  dazed  expression  ;  he 
glances  from  Laboissiere  to  the  woman,  and  catches  his  breath 

Mercedes ! 


LABOISSIERE 

Louvois,  we  are  dead  men  !  Beware  of  her,  she 
is  a  fiend  !  Kill  her  without  a  word  !  The  drink 
already  throttles  me  —  I  —  I  cannot  breathe  here. 

[Staggers  out,  followed  wildly  by  the  soldiers 


SCENE  IV 
Louvois,  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 
What  does  he  say  ? 

MERCEDES 

You  heard  him. 


188  MERCEDES 

LOUVOIS 
His    WOrds     have     no    Sense.       (Advancing  towards  her) 

Oh,  why  are  you  in  this  place,  Mercedes  ? 

MERCEDES,  recoiling 

I  am  here,  senor 

LOUVOIS 
You  call  me  senor  —  you  shrink  from  me 


MERCEDES 

Because  we  Spaniards  do  not  desert  those  who 
depend  upon  us. 

LOUVOIS 

Is  that  a  reproach  ?  Ah,  cruel !  Have  you  for- 
gotten   

MERCEDES 

I  have  forgotten  nothing.  I  have  had  cause  to 
remember  all.  I  remember,  among  the  rest,  that 
a  certain  wounded  French  officer  was  cared  for  in 
this  village  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  our  own  people 
—  and  now  he  returns  to  massacre  us. 

LOUVOIS 
Mercedes ! 

MERCEDES 

I  remember  the  morning,  nearly  two  years  ago, 


MERCEDES  189 

when  Padre  Josef  brought  me  your  letter.  You 
had  stolen  away  in  the  night  —  like  a  deserter! 
Ah,  that  letter  —  how  it  pierced  my  heart,  and  yet 
bade  me  live  !  Because  it  was  full  of  those  smooth 
oaths  which  women  love,  I  carried  it  in  my  bosom 
for  a  twelvemonth ;  then  for  another  twelvemonth 
I  carried  it  because  I  hoped  to  give  it  back  to  you. 

{Takes  a  paper  from  her  bosom)  See,  SCfior,  what  slight 
things  WOrds  are  !  (Tears  the  paper  into  small  pieces^  -which  sht 
scatters  at  his  feet) 

LOUVOIS 

Ah! 

MERCEDES 

Sometimes  it  comforted  me  to  think  that  you 
were  dead.  Senor,  't  is  better  to  be  dead  than  false 
—  and  you  were  false ! 

LOUVOIS 

Not  I,  by  all  your  saints  and  mine !  It  is  you 
who  have  broken  faith.  I  should  be  the  last  of 
men  if  I  had  deserted  you.  Why,  even  a  dog  has 
gratitude.  How  could  I  now  look  you  in  the  face  ? 

MERCEDES 

'T  was  an  ill  day  you  first  did  so ! 

LOUVOIS 
Listen  to  me ! 


190  MERCEDES 

MERCEDES 

Too  many  times  I  have  listened.  Nay,  speak 
not ;  I  might  believe  you ! 

LOUVOIS 

If  I  do  not  speak  the  truth,  despise  me  !  Since 
I  left  Arguano  I  have  been  at  Lisbon,  Irun,  Aran- 
juez,  among  the  mountains  —  I  know  not  where ; 
but  ever  in  some  spot  whence  it  was  impossible  to 
send  you  tidings.  A  wall  of  fire  and  steel  shut  me 
from  you.  Thrice  I  have  had  my  letters  brought 
back  to  me  —  with  the  bearers'  blood  upon  them  ; 
thrice  I  have  trusted  to  messengers  whose  treachery 
I  now  discover.  For  a  chance  bit  of  worthless  gold 
they  broke  the  seals,  and  wrecked  our  lives  !  Ah, 
Mercedes,  when  my  silence  troubled  you,  why  did 
you  not  read  the  old  letter  again  !  If  the  words  you 
had  of  mine  lost  their  value,  it  was  because  they 
were  like  those  jewels  in  the  padre's  story,  which 
changed  their  color  when  the  wearer  proved  un- 
faithful. 

MERCEDES 

Aquilles ! 

LOUVOIS 

Though  I  could  not  come  to  you  nor  send  to 
you,  I  never  dreamed  I  was  forgotten.  I  used  to 
say  to  myself :  "  A  week,  a  month,  a  year  —  what 


MERCEDES  191 

does  it  matter?  That  brown  girl  is  as  true  as 
steel ! "  I  think  I  bore  a  charmed  life  in  those 
days;  I  grew  to  believe  that  neither  sword  nor 
bullet  could  touch  me  until  I  held  you  in  my  arms 

again.  (  The  girl  stands  -with  her  hands  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and 
looks  at  him  with  a  growing  light  in  her  eyes)  It  Was  the  day 

before  yesterday  that  our  brigade  returned  to 
Burgos  —  at  last !  at  last !  O  love,  my  eyes  were 
hungry  for  you  !  Then  that  dreadful  order  came. 
Arguano  had  been  to  me  what  Mecca  is  to  the  Mo- 
hammedan—  a  shrine  to  be  reached  through  toil 
and  thirst  and  death.  Oh,  what  a  grim  freak  it 
was  of  fate,  that  I  should  lead  a  column  against 
Arguano  —  my  shrine,  my  Holy  Land  ! 

Mercedes  moves  swiftly  across  the  room,  and  kneeling  on  the 
flag-stones  near  Louvois's  feet  begins  to  pick  up  the  frag- 
ments of  the  letter.  He  suddenly  stoops  and  takes  her  by 
the  wrists. 

Mercedes ! 

MERCEDES 

Ah,  but  I  was  so  unhappy!     Was  I  unhappy? 

I    forget.       (Looks  up  in  his  face  and  laughs)      It    IS    SO    VCry 

long  ago !  An  instant  of  heaven  would  make  one 
forget  a  century  of  hell !  When  I  hear  your  voice, 
two  years  are  as  yesterday.  It  was  not  I,  but  some 
poor  girl  I  used  to  know  who  was  like  to  die  for 
you.  It  was  not  I  —  I  have  never  been  anything 
but  happy.  Nay,  I  needs  must  weep  a  little  for 


192  MERCEDES 

her,  the  days  were  so  heavy  to  that  poor  girl.     And 
when  you  go  away  again,  as  go  you  must 

LOUVOIS 

I  shall  take  you  with  me,  Mercedes.  Do  you 
understand  ?  You  are  to  go  with  me  to  Burgos. 
(Aside)  What  a  blank  look  she  wears !  She  does 
not  seem  to  understand. 

MERCEDES,  abstractedly 

With  you  to  Burgos  ?  I  was  there  once,  in  the 
great  cathedral,  and  saw  the  bishops  in  their  golden 
robes,  and  all  the  jewelled  windows  ablaze  in  the 
sunset.  But  with  you  ?  Am  I  dreaming  this  ?  The 
very  room  has  grown  unfamiliar  to  me.  The  cru- 
cifix yonder,  at  which  I  have  knelt  a  hundred  times, 
was  it  always  there  ?  My  head  is  full  of  unwonted 
visions.  I  think  I  hear  music  and  the  sounds  of 
castanets,  like  poor  old  Ursula.  Those  cries  in 
the  calle  —  is  it  a  merry-meeting  ?  Ah  !  what  a 
pain  struck  my  heart  then  !  O  God !  I  had  for- 
gotten !  (Clutches  his  arm  and  pushes  him  from  her)  Have 

you  drunk  wine  this  day  ? 

LOUVOIS 
Why,  Mercedes,  how  strange  you  are ! 

MERCEDES 

No,  no  !  have  you  drunk  wine  ? 


MERCEDES  193 

LOUVOIS 

Well,  yes,  a  cup  without.  What  then  ?  How 
white  you  are ! 

MERCEDES 

Quick !  let  me  look  you  in  the  face.  I  wish  to 
tell  you  something.  You  loved  me  once  ...  it  was 
in  May  .  .  .  your  wound  is  quite  well  now  ?  No,  no, 
not  that !  All  things  slip  from  me.  Chiquita  —  nay, 
hold  me  closer,  I  do  not  see  you.  Into  the  sun- 
light—  into  the  sunlight! 

LOUVOIS 
She  is  fainting ! 

MERCEDES 

I  am  dying  —  I  am  poisoned.  The  wine  was 
drugged  for  the  French.  'T  was  Pedro  Mendez  did 
it,  who  hated  all  Frenchmen  because  of  you.  I 
was  desperate.  Chiquita  —  there  in  the  cradle  — 
she  is  dead  —  and  I [.sinks  down  at  his  feet 

LOUVOIS,  stooping  over  her 

Mercedes !  Mercedes ! 

After  an  interval  a  measured  tramp  is  heard  outside.     A  ser- 
geant with  a  file  of  soldiers  in  disorder  enters  the  hut. 


194  MERCEDES 

SCENE  V 
SERGEANT  and  SOLDIERS 

FIRST    SOLDIER 

Behold !  he  has  killed  the  murderess. 

SECOND   SOLDIER 

If  she  had  but  twenty  lives  now ! 

THIRD    SOLDIER 

That  would  not  bring  back  the  brave  Laboissiere 
and  the  rest. 

SECOND   SOLDIER 

Sapristi,  no !  but  it  would  give  us  life  for  life. 

FOURTH    SOLDIER 

Misericorde  !  are  twenty 

SERGEANT 

Hold    your    peace,    all    Of    you!       (Advances  and  salutes 
Louvois,  -who   is  half  kneeling  beside   the  body  of  the   woman)       My 

captain!     (Aside}     He  does  not  answer  me.     (Lays his 

hand  hurriedly  on  Louvois1  s  shoulder  and  starts)       ollenCC.   there! 

and  stand  uncovered.     He  is  dead  ! 

Curtain 


FOOTNOTES 

A   BOOK  OF  QUATRAINS 


TO   THE   READER 

READER,  you  must  take  this  verse 
As  you  take  to  wife  a  maiden 
With  her  faults  and  virtues  laden  — 
Both  for  better  and  for  worse. 


DAY   AND    NIGHT 

DAY  is  a  snow-white  Dove  of  heaven 
That  from  the  East  glad  message  brings : 
Night  is  a  stealthy,  evil  Raven, 
Wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  his  black  wings. 

MAPLE    LEAVES 

OCTOBER  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to  gold ; 
The  most  are  gone  now  ;  here  and  there  one  lingers  : 
Soon  these  will  slip  from  out  the  twigs'  weak  hold, 
Like  coins  between  a  dying  miser's  fingers. 
195 


196  FOOTNOTES 

A   CHILD'S    GRAVE 

A  LITTLE  mound  with  chipped  headstone, 
The  grass,  ah  me  !  uncut  about  the  sward, 

Summer  by  summer  left  alone 
With  one  white  lily  keeping  watch  and  ward. 

PESSIMIST   AND   OPTIMIST 

THIS  one  sits  shivering  in  Fortune's  smile, 

Taking  his  joy  with  bated,  doubtful  breath. 
This  other,  gnawed  by  hunger,  all  the  while 
Laughs  in  the  teeth  of  Death. 

GRACE   AND   STRENGTH 

MANOAH'S  son,  in  his  blind  rage  malign 
Tumbling  the  temple  down  upon  his  foes, 
Did  no  such  feat  as  yonder  delicate  vine 
That  day  by  day  un tired  holds  up  a  rose. 

FROM   THE    SPANISH 

To  him  that  hath,  we  are  told, 
Shall  be  given.     Yes,  by  the  Cross ! 
To  the  rich  man  fate  sends  gold, 
To  the  poor  man  loss  on  loss. 


FOOTNOTES  197 

MASKS 

BLACK  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  disguise 
And  shows  you  laughing  lips  and  roguish  eyes ; 
But  when,  unmasked,  gay  Comedy  appears, 
How  wan  her  cheeks  are,  and  what  heavy  tears  ! 

COQUETTE 

OR  light  or  dark,  or  short  or  tall, 
She  sets  a  springe  to  snare  them  all ; 
All 's  one  to  her  —  above  her  fan 
She  'd  make  sweet  eyes  at  Caliban. 

EPITAPHS 

Honest  lago.     When  his  breath  was  fled 
Doubtless  these  words  were  carven  at  his  head. 
Such  lying  epitaphs  are  like  a  rose 
That  in  unlovely  earth  takes  root  and  grows. 

POPULARITY 

SUCH  kings  of  shreds  have  wooed  and  won  her, 

Such  crafty  knaves  her  laurel  owned, 
It  has  become  almost  an  honor 
Not  to  be  crowned. 


198  FOOTNOTES 

CIRCUMSTANCE 

LINKED  to  a  clod,  harassed,  and  sad 
With  sordid  cares,  she  knew  not  life  was  sweet 
Who  should  have  moved  in  marble  halls,  and  had 

Kings  and  crown-princes  at  her  feet. 

SPENDTHRIFT 

THE  fault 's  not  mine,  you  understand  : 
God  shaped  my  palm  so  I  can  hold 
But  little  water  in  my  hand 
And  not  much  gold. 

THE   TWO   MASKS 

I  GAVE  my  heart  its  freedom  to  be  gay 
Or  grave  at  will,  when  life  was  in  its  May ; 
So  I  have  gone,  a  pilgrim  through  the  years, 
With  more  of  laughter  in  my  scrip  than  tears. 

MYRTILLA 

THIS  is  the  difference,  neither  more  nor  less, 

Between  Medusa's  and  Myrtilla's  face : 
The  former  slays  us  with  its  awfulness, 
The  latter  with  its  grace. 


FOOTNOTES  199 

ON    HER  BLUSHING 

Now  the  red  wins  upon  her  cheek  ; 

Now  white  with  crimson  closes 
In  desperate  struggle  —  so  to  speak, 
A  War  of  Roses. 


ON  A  VOLUME  OF  ANONYMOUS  POEMS 
ENTITLED  "A  MASQUE  OF  POETS" 

VAIN  is  the  mask.     Who  cannot  at  desire 
Name  every  Singer  in  the  hidden  choir  ? 
That  is  a  thin  disguise  which  veils  with  care 
The  face,  but  lets  the  changeless  heart  lie  bare. 


THE    DIFFERENCE 

SOME  weep  because  they  part, 
And  languish  broken-hearted, 
And  others  —  O  my  heart !  — 
Because  they  never  parted. 


ON   READING 

GREAT  thoughts  in  crude,  unshapely  verse  set  forth. 
Lose  half  their  preciousness,  and  ever  must. 
Unless  the  diamond  with  its  own  rich  dust 
Be  cut  and  polished,  it  seems  little  worth. 


200  FOOTNOTES 

THE    ROSE 

FIXED  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem, 
A  rose  she  wore  —  the  flower  June  made  for  her ; 
Fairer  it  looked  than  when  upon  the  stem, 
And  must,  indeed,  have  been  much  happier. 

MOONRISE    AT   SEA 

UP  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep ; 
And  now  a  pallid,  haggard  face  lifts  she 
Above  the  water-line :  thus  from  the  deep 
A  drowned  body  rises  solemnly. 

ROMEO   AND   JULIET 

FROM  mask  to  mask,  amid  the  masquerade, 
Young  Passion  went  with  challenging,  soft  breath : 
Art  Love  ?  he  whispered  ;  art  thou  Love,  sweet  maid  ? 
Then  Love,  with  glittering  eyelids,  I  am  Death. 

HOSPITALITY 

WHEN  friends  are  at  your  hearthside  met, 
Sweet  courtesy  has  done  its  most 
If  you  have  made  each  guest  forget 
That  he  himself  is  not  the  host. 


"MOONRISE    AT   SEA."     Page  200. 


FOOTNOTES  201 

HUMAN   IGNORANCE 

WHAT  mortal  knows 
Whence  come  the  tint  and  odor  of  the  rose  ? 

What  probing  deep 
Has  ever  solved  the  mystery  of  sleep  ? 


FROM   EASTERN    SOURCES 


IN  youth  my  hair  was  black  as  night, 
My  life  as  white  as  driven  snow : 
As  white  as  snow  my  hair  is  now, 
And  that  is  black  which  once  was  white. 


ii 

No  wonder  Hafiz  wrote  such  verses,  when 
He  had  the  bill  of  nightingale  for  pen ; 
Nor  that  his  lyrics  were  divine 
Whose  only  ink  was  tears  and  wine. 


in 

A  poor  dwarf's  figure,  looming  through  the  dense 
Mists  of  a  mountain,  seemed  a  shape  immense, 
On  seeing  which,  a  giant,  in  dismay, 
Took  to  his  heels  and  ran  away. 


202  FOOTNOTES 

MEMORIES 

Two  things  there  are  with  Memory  will  abide, 
Whatever  else  befall,  while  life  flows  by : 
That  soft  cold  hand-touch  at  the  altar  side ; 
The  thrill  that  shook  you  at  your  child's  first  cry. 


EVIL   EASIER   THAN   GOOD 

ERE  half  the  good  I  planned  to  do 
Was  done,  the  short-breathed  day  was  through. 
Had  my  intents  been  dark  instead  of  fair 
I  had  done  all,  and  still  had  time  to  spare. 


FIREFLIES 

SEE  where  at  intervals  the  firefly's  spark 
Glimmers,  and  melts  into  the  fragrant  dark ; 
Gilds  a  leaf's  edge  one  happy  instant,  then 
Leaves  darkness  all  a  mystery  again ! 


PROBLEM 

So  closely  knit  are  mind  and  brain, 
Such  web  and  woof  are  soul  and  clay, 
How  is  it,  being  rent  in  twain, 
One  part  shall  live,  and  one  decay  ? 


FOOTNOTES  203 

ORIGINALITY 

No  bird  has  ever  uttered  note 
That  was  not  in  some  first  bird's  throat ; 
Since  Eden's  freshness  and  man's  fall 
No  rose  has  been  original. 

KISMET 

A  GLANCE,  a  word  —  and  joy  or  pain 
Befalls ;  what  was  no  more  shall  be. 
How  slight  the  links  are  in  the  chain 
That  binds  us  to  our -destiny ! 

A   HINT   FROM   HERRICK 

No  slightest  golden  rhyme  he  wrote 
That  held  not  something  men  must  quote ; 
Thus  by  design  or  chance  did  he 
Drop  anchors  to  posterity. 

PESSIMISTIC   POETS 

I  LITTLE  read  those  poets  who  have  made 
A  noble  art  a  pessimistic  trade, 
And  trained  their  Pegasus  to  draw  a  hearse 
Through  endless  avenues  of  drooping  verse. 


204  FOOTNOTES 

POINTS   OF   VIEW 

BONNET  in  hand,  obsequious  and  discreet, 

The  butcher  that  served  Shakespeare  with  his  meat 

Doubtless  esteemed  him  little,  as  a  man 

Who  knew  not  how  the  market  prices  ran. 

QUITS 

IF  my  best  wines  mislike  thy  taste, 
And  my  best  service  win  thy  frown, 
Then  tarry  not,  I  bid  thee  haste ; 
There 's  many  another  Inn  in  town. 


SPRING  IN    NEW  ENGLAND 

AN   ODE 


THE  long  years  come  and  go, 

And  the  Past, 

The  sorrowful,  splendid  Past, 
With  its  glory  and  its  woe, 

Seems  never  to  have  been. 
The  bugle's  taunting  blast 
Has  died  away  by  Southern  ford  and  glen : 
The  mock-bird  sings  unf  rightened  in  its  dell ; 
The  ensanguined  stream  flows  free  of  stain  ; 
Where  once  the  hissing  death-bolt  fell, 
And  all  along  the  artillery's  level  lines 

Leapt  flames  of  hell, 
The  planter  smiles  upon  the  sprouting  grain, 

And  tends  his  vines. 
Seems  never  to  have  been  ? 
O  sombre  days  and  grand, 
How  ye  crowd  back  again, 
Seeing  our  heroes'  graves  are  green 
205 


206  SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

By  the  Potomac  and  the  Cumberland, 
And  in  the  hush  of  many  a  lonely  glen  ! 


ii 


Now  while  the  pale  arbutus  in  our  woods 
Wakes  to  faint  life  beneath  the  dead  year's  leaves, 
And  the  bleak  North  lets  loose  its  wailing  broods 
Of  winds  upon  us,  and  the  gray  sea  grieves 
Along  our  coast ;  while  yet  the  Winter's  hand 
Heavily  presses  on  New  England's  heart, 
And  Spring  averts  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes 
Lest  some  vain  cowslip  should  untimely  start  — 
While  we  are  housed  in  this  rude  season's  gloom, 
In  this  rude  land, 

Bereft  of  warmth  and  bloom, 
We  know,  far  off  beneath  the  Southern  skies, 
Where  the  flush  blossoms  mock  our  drifts  of  snow 
And  the  lithe  vine  unfolds  its  emerald  sheen  — 
On  many  a  sunny  hillside  there,  we  know 

Our  heroes'  graves  are  green. 


in 

The  long  years  come,  but  they 

Come  not  again  ! 
Through  vapors  dense  and  gray 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  207 

Steals  back  the  May, 
But  they  come  not  again  — 
Swept  by  the  battle's  fiery  breath 
Down  unknown  ways  of  death. 
How  can  our  fancies  help  but  go 
Out  from  this  realm  of  mist  and  rain, 
Out  from  this  realm  of  sleet  and  snow, 
When  the  first  Southern  violets  blow  ? 


IV 


While  yet  the  year  is  young 
Many  a  garland  shall  be  hung 

In  our  gardens  of  the  dead  ; 
On  obelisk  and  urn 
Shall  the  lilac's  purple  burn, 

And  the  wild-rose  leaves  be  shed. 
And  afar  in  the  woodland  ways, 
Through  the  rustic  church-yard  gate 
Matrons  and  maidens  shall  pass, 
Striplings  and  white-haired  men, 
And,  spreading  aside  the  grass, 
Linger  at  name  and  date, 
Remembering  old,  old  days  ! 
And  the  lettering  on  each  stone 
Where  the  mould's  green  breath  has  blown 
Tears  shall  wash  clear  again. 


208  SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 


But  far  away  to  the  South,  in  the  sultry,  stricken 

land  — 
On  the  banks  of   turbid  streams  gurgling  among 

their  reeds, 
By  many  a  drear  morass,  where  the  long-necked 

pelican  feeds, 

By  many  a  dark  bayou,  and  blinding  dune  of  sand, 
By  many  a  cypress  swamp  where  the  cayman  seeks 

its  prey, 
In  many  a  moss-hung  wood,  the  twilight's  haunt  by 

day, 
And  down  where  the  land's  parched  lip  drinks  at 

the  salt  sea-waves, 
And  the  ghostly  sails  glide  by  —  there  are  piteous, 

nameless  graves. 

Their  names  no  tongue  may  tell, 
Buried  there  where  they  fell, 
The  bravest  of  our  braves  ! 
Never  sweetheart,  or  friend, 

Wan  pale  mother,  or  bride, 
Over  these  mounds  shall  bend, 

Tenderly  putting  aside 

The  unremembering  grass  ! 
Never  the  votive  wreath 
For  the  unknown  brows  beneath, 

Never  a  tear,  alas  ! 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  209 

How  can  our  fancies  help  but  go 
Oat  from  this  realm  of  mist  and  rain, 
Out  from  this  realm  of  sleet  and  snow, 
When  the  first  Southern  violets  blow  ? 
How  must  our  thought  bend  over  them, 
Blessing  the  flowers  that  cover  them  — 
Piteous,  nameless  graves ! 


VI 


Ah,  but  the  life  they  gave 
Is  not  shut  in  the  grave : 
The  valorous  spirits  freed 
Live  in  the  vital  deed  ! 
Marble  shall  crumble  to  dust, 
Plinth  of  bronze  and  of  stone, 
Carved  escutcheon  and  crest  — 
Silently,  one  by  orie, 
The  sculptured  lilies  fall ; 
Softly  the  tooth  of  the  rust 
Gnaws  through  the  brazen  shield  ; 
Broken,  and  covered  with  stains, 
The  crossed  stone  swords  must  yield 
Mined  by  the  frost  and  the  drouth, 
Smitten  by  north  and  south, 
Smitten  by  east  and  west, 
Down  comes  column  and  all ! 
But  the  great  deed  remains. 


210  SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

VII 

When  we  remember  how  they  died  — 

In  dark  ravine  and  on  the  mountain-side, 

In  leaguered  fort  and  fire-encircled  town, 

Upon  the  gunboat's  splintered  deck, 

And  where  the  iron  ships  went  down  — 

How  their  dear  lives  were  spent, 

In  the  crushed  and  reddened  wreck, 

By  lone  lagoons  and  streams, 

In  the  weary  hospital-tent, 

In  the  cockpit's  crowded  hive  — 

How  they  languished  and  died 

In  the  black  stockades  —  it  seems 

Ignoble  to  be  alive  ! 

Tears  will  well  to  our  eyes, 

And  the  bitter  doubt  will  rise  — 

But  hush  !  -for  the  strife  is  done, 

Forgiven  are  wound  and  scar ; 

The  fight  was  fought  and  won 

Long  since,  on  sea  and  shore, 

And  every  scattered  star 

Set  in  the  blue  once  more  : 

We  are  one  as  before, 

With  the  blot  from  our  scutcheon  gone  ! 

VIII 

So  let  our  heroes  rest 
Upon  your  sunny  breast : 


SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  211 

Keep  them,  O  South,  our  tender  hearts  and  true, 
Keep  them,  O  South,  and  learn  to  hold  them  dear 
From  year  to  year  ! 
Never  forget, 

Dying  for  us,  they  died  for  you. 
This  hallowed  dust  should  knit  us  closer  yet. 


IX 

Hark  !  't  is  the  bluebird's  venturous  strain 
High  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate, 
Sweet-voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough, 

Alert,  elate, 

Dodging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow  — 
New  England's  poet  laureate 
Telling  us  Spring  has  come  again  ! 
1875 


WYNDHAM   TOWERS 


TO 
EDWIN    BOOTH 

FROM 
HIS    FRIEND   AND   COMRADE 

THESE   MANY   YEARS 
1890. 

BEFORE  you  reach  the  slender,  high-arched  bridge, 
Like  to  a  heron  with  one  foot  in  stream, 
The    hamlet     breaks    upon    you    through    green 
boughs  —  * 

A  square  stone  church  within  a  place  of  graves 
Upon  the  slope  ;  gray  houses  oddly  grouped, 
With     plastered    gables    set    with    crossed    oak- 
beams, 

And  roofs  of  yellow  tile  and  purplish  slate. 
That  is  The  Falcon,  with  the  swinging  sign 
And  rustic  bench,  an  ancient  hostelry ; 
Those  leaden  lattices  were  hung  on  hinge 
In  good  Queen  Bess's  time,  so  old  it  is. 
On  ridge-piece,  gable-end,  or  dove-cot  vane, 
213 


214  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

A  gilded  weathercock  at  intervals 
Glimmers  —  an  angel  on  the  wing,  most  like, 
Of  local  workmanship ;  for  since  the  reign 
Of  pious  Edward  here  have  carvers  thrived, 
In  saints'-heads  skilful  and  winged  cherubim 
Meet    for    rich    abbeys.       From    yon    crumbling 

tower, 

Whose  brickwork  base  the  cunning  Romans  laid  — 
And  now  of  no  use  else  except  to  train 
The  ivy  of  an  idle  legend  on  — 
You  see,  such  lens  is  this  thin  Devon  air, 
If  it  so  chance  no  fog  comes  rolling  in, 
The  Torridge  where  its  branching  crystal  spreads 
To  join  the  Taw.     Hard  by  from  a  chalk  cliff 
A  torrent  leaps  :  not  lovelier  Sappho  was 
Giving  herself  all  silvery  to  the  sea 
From  that  Leucadian  rock.     Beneath  your  feet 
Lie  sand  and  surf  in  curving  parallels. 
Off  shore,  a  buoy  gleams  like  a  dolphin's  back 
Dripping  with  brine,  and  guards  a  sunken  reef 
Whose  sharp  incisors  have  gnawed  many  a  keel ; 
There  frets  the  sea  and  turns  white  at  the  lip, 
And  in  ill-weather  lets  the  ledge  show  fangs. 
A  very  pleasant  nook  in  Devon,  this. 

Upon  the  height  of  old  was  Wyndham  Towers, 
Clinging  to  rock  there,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 
With  moat  and  drawbridge  once,  and  good  for  siege  ; 
Four  towers  it  had  to  front  the  diverse  winds : 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  215 

Built  God  knows  when,  all  record  being  lost, 
Locked  in  the  memories  of  forgotten  men. 
In  Caesar's  day,  a  pagan  temple  ;  next 
A  monastery  ;  then  a  feudal  hold ; 
Later  a  manor,  and  at  last  a  ruin. 
Such  knowledge  have  we  of  it,  vaguely  caught 
Through  whispers  fallen  from  tradition's  lip. 
This  shattered  tower,  with  crenellated  top 
And  loops  for  archers,  alone  marks  the  spot, 
Looming  forlornly  —  a  gigantic  harp 
Whereon  the  invisible  fingers  of  the -wind 
Its  fitful  and  mysterious  dirges  play. 

Here  dwelt,  in  the  last  Tudor's  virgin  reign, 
One  Richard  Wyndham,  Knight  and  Gentleman 
(The  son  of  Rawdon,  slain  near  Calais  wall 
When  Bloody  Mary  lost  her  grip  on  France), 
A  lonely  wight  that  no  kith  had  nor  kin 
Save  one,  a  brother  —  by  ill-fortune's  spite 
A  brother,  since  't  were  better  to  have  none  — 
Of  late  not  often  seen  at  Wyndham  Towers, 
Where  he  in  truth  but  lenten  welcome  got 
When  to  that  gate  his  errant  footstep  strayed. 
Yet  he  held  dear  those  gray  majestic  walls, 
Time-stained  and  crusted  with  the  sea's  salt  breath ; 
There  first  his  eyes  took  color  of  the  sea, 
There  did  his  heart  stay  when  fate  drove  him  thence, 
And  there  at  last  —  but  that  we  tell  anon. 
Darrell  they  named  him,  for  an  ancestor 


2i6  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Whose  bones  were  whitening  in  Holy  Land, 
The  other  Richard  ;  a  crusader  name, 
Yet  it  was  Darrell  had  the  lion-heart. 

No  love  and  little  liking  served  this  pair, 
In  look  and  word  unpaired  as  white  and  black — - 
Of  once  rich  bough  the  last  unlucky  fruit. 
The  one,  for  straightness  like  a  Norland  pine 
Set  on  some  precipice's  perilous  edge, 
Intrepid,  handsome,  little  past  blown  youth, 
Of  all  pure  thought  and  brave  deed  amorous, 
Moulded  the  court's  high  atmosphere  to  breathe, 
Yet  liking  well  the  camp's  more  liberal  air  — 
A  poet,  soldier,  courtier,  't  was  the  mode. 
The  other  —  as  a  glow-worm  to  a  star  — 
Suspicious,  morbid,  passionate,  self-involved, 
The  soul  half  eaten  out  with  solitude, 
Corroded,  like  a  sword-blade  left  in  sheath 
Asleep  and  lost  to  action  —  in  a  word, 
A  misanthrope,  a  miser,  a  soured  man, 
One  fortune  loved  not  and  looked  at  askance. 
Yet  he  a  pleasant  outward  semblance  had. 
Say  what  you  will,  and  paint  things  as  you  may, 
The  devil  is  not  black,  with  horn  and  hoof, 
As  gossips  picture  him  :  he  is  a  person 
Quite  scrupulous  of  doublet  and  demeanor, 
As  was  this  Master  Wyndham  of  the  Towers, 
Now  latterly  in  most  unhappy  case, 
Because  of  matters  to  be  here  set  forth. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  217 

A  thing  of  not  much  moment,  as  life  goes, 
A  thing  a  man  with  some  philosophy 
Had  idly  brushed  aside,  as 't  were  a  gnat 
That  winged  itself  between  him  and  the  light, 
Had,  through  the  crooked  working  of  his  mind, 
Brought  Wyndham  to  a  very  grievous  pass. 
Yet  't  was  a  grapestone  choked  Anacreon 
And  hushed  his  song.     There  is  no  little  thing' 
In  nature  :  in  a  raindrop's  compass  lie 
A  planet's  elements.     This  Wyndham's  woe 
Was  one  Griselda,  daughter  to  a  man 
Of  Bideford,  a  shipman  once,  but  since 
Turned  soldier ;  now  in  white-haired,  wrinkled  age 
Sitting  beneath  the  olive,  valiant  still, 
With  sword  on  nail  above  the  chimney-shelf 
In  case  the  Queen  should  need  its  edge  again. 
An  officer  he  was,  though  lowly  born. 
The  man  aforetime,  in  the  Netherlands 
And  through  those  ever-famous  French  campaigns 
(Marry,  in  what  wars  bore  he  not  a  hand  ?) 
In  Rawdon  Wyndham's  troop  of  horse  had  served, 
And  when  he  fell  that  day  by  Calais  wall 
Had  from  the  Frenchmen's  pikes  his  body  snatched, 
And  so  much  saved  of  him,  which  was  not  much, 
The  good  knight  being  dead.     For  this  deed's  sake, 
That  did  enlarge  itself  in  sorrow's  eye, 
The  widow  deemed  all  guerdon  all  too  small, 
And  held  her  dear  lord's  servant  and  his  girl, 
Born  later,  when  that  clash  of  steel  was  done, 


218  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

As  her  own  kin,  till  she  herself  was  laid 
In  the  earth  and  sainted  elsewhere.     The  two  sons 
Let  cool  the  friendship  :  one  in  foreign  parts 
Sought  gold  and  honor ;  and  one  stayed  at  home, 
The  heir,  and  now  of  old  friends  negligent : 
Thus  fortune  hardens  the  ignoble  heart. 

Griselda  even  as  a  little  maid, 
Demure,  but  with  more  crotchets  in  the  brain, 
I  warrant  you,  than  minutes  to  the  hour, 
Had  this  one  much  misliked ;  in  her  child-thought 
Confused  him  somehow  with  those  cruel  shapes 
Of  iron  men  that  up  there  at  The  Towers 
Quickened  her  pulse.     For  he  was  gaunt,  his  face, 
Mature  beyond  the  logic  of  his  years, 
Had  in  it  something  sinister  and  grim, 
Like  to  the  visage  pregnant  fancy  saw 
Behind  the  bars  of  each  disused  casque 
In  that  east  chamber  where  the  harness  hung 
And  dinted  shields  of  Wyndhams  gone  to  grace  — 
At  Poitiers  this  one,  this  at  Agincourt, 
That  other  on  the  sands  of  Palestine : 
A  breed  of  fierce  man-slayers,  sire  and  son. 
Of  these  seemed  Richard,  with  his  steel  cross-bow 
Killing  the  doves  in  very  wantonness, 
The  gentle  doves  that  to  the  ramparts  came 
For  scattered  crumbs,  undreamful  of  all  ill. 
Each  well-sent  bolt  that  pierced  a  snowy  breast 
Straight  to  her  own  white-budding  bosom  went. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  219 

Fled   were   those   summers  now,   and   she   had 

passed 

Out  of  the  child-world  of  vain  fantasy 
Where  many  a  rainbow  castle  lay  in  ruin  ; 
But  to  her  mind,  like  wine-stain  to  a  flask, 
The  old  distrust  still  clung,  indelible, 
Holding  her  in  her  maidhood's  serious  prime 
Well  pleased  from  his  cold  eyes  to  move  apart, 
And  in  her  humble  fortunes  dwell  secure. 
Indeed,  what  was  she  ?  —  a  poor  soldier's  girl, 
Merely  a  tenant's  daughter.     Times  were  changed, 
And  life's  bright  web  had  sadder  colors  in  't : 
That  most  sweet  gentle  lady  —  rest  her  soul !  — 
Shrunk  to  an  epitaph  beside  her  lord's, 
And  six  lines  shorter,  which  was  all  a  shame ; 
Gaunt  Richard  heir ;  that  other  at  earth's  end, 
(The  younger  son  that  was  her  sweetheart  once,) 
Fighting  the  Spaniards,  getting  slain  perchance  ; 
And  all  dear  old-time  uses  quite  forgot. 
Slowly,  unnoted,  like  the  creeping  rust 
That  spreads  insidious,  had  estrangement  come, 
Until  at  last,  one  knew  not  how  it  fell, 
And  little  cared,  if  sober  truth  were  said, 
She  and  the  father  no  more  climbed  the  hill 
To  Twelfth  Night  festival  or  May-day  dance, 
Nor  commerce  had  with  any  at  The  Towers. 
Yet  in  a  formless,  misty  sort  of  way 
The  girl  had  place  in  Wyndham's  mind  —  the  girl, 
Why,  yes,  beshrew  him !  it  was  even  she 


220  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Whom  his  soft  mother  had  made  favorite  of, 
And  well-nigh  spoiled,  some  dozen  summers  gone. 

Perhaps  because  dull  custom  made  her  tame, 
Or  that  she  was  not  comely  in  the  bud, 
Her  sweetness  halting  like  a  tardy  May 
That  wraps  itself  in  mist,  and  seems  not  fair, 
For  this  or  finer  reason  undivined, 
His  thought  she  touched  not,  and  was  glad  withal 
When  she  did  note  how  others  took  his  eye 
And  wore  rue  after.     Thus  was  her  white  peace 
Undarkened  till,  it  so  befell,  these  two 
Meeting  as  they  a  hundred  times  had  met 
On  hill-path  or  at  crossing  of  the  weir, 
Her  beauty  broke  on  him  like  some  rare  flower 
That  was  not  yesterday.     Ev'n  so  the  Spring 
Unclasps  the  girdle  of  its  loveliness 
Abruptly,  in  the  North  here  :  long  the  drifts 
Linger  in  hollows,  long  on  bough  and  briar 
No  slight  leaf  ventures,  lest  the  frost's  keen  tooth 
Nip  it,  and  then  all  suddenly  the  earth 
Is  nought  but  scent  and  bloom.     So  unto  him 
Griselda's  grace  unclosed.     Where  lagged  his  wit 
That  guessed  not  of  the  bud  within  the  stem, 
Nor  hint  had  of  the  flower  within  the  bud  ? 
If  so  much  beauty  had  a  tiger  been, 
'T  had  eaten  him  !     In  all  the  wave-washed  length 
Of  rocky  Devon  where  was  found  her  like 
For  excellence  of  wedded  red  and  white  ? 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  221 

Here  on  that  smooth  and  sunny  field,  her  cheek, 

The  hostile  hues  of  Lancaster  and  York 

Did  meet,  and,  blending,  make  a  heavenly  truce. 

This  were  indeed  a  rose  a  king  might  wear 

Upon  his  bosom.     By  St.  Dunstan,  now, 

Himself  would  wear  it.     Then  by  seeming  chance 

He  crossed  her  walks,  and  stayed  her  with  discourse 

Devised  adroitly ;  spoke  of  common  things 

At  first  —  of  days  when  his  good  mother  lived, 

If 't  were  to  live,  to  pass  long  dolorous  hours 

Before  his  father's  efHgy  in  church  ; 

Of  one  who  then  used  often  come  to  hall, 

Ever  at  Yule-tide,  when  the  great  log  flamed 

Upon  the  hearth,  and  laugh  and  jest  went  round, 

And  maidens  strayed  beneath  the  mistletoe, 

Making  believe  not  see  it,  so  got  kissed  — 

Of  one  that  liked  not  the  wild  morrice-dance, 

But  in  her  sea-green  kirtle  stood  at  gaze, 

A  timid  little  creature  that  was  scared 

By   dead    men's    armor.     Nought    there   suffered 

change, 

Those  empty  shells  of  valor  grew  not  old, 
Though  something  rusty.     Would  they  fright  her 

now 

Looked  she  upon  them  ?     Held  she  in  her  mind 
('T  was  Spring  and  loud  the  mavis  piped  outside) 
The  day  the  Turkish  helmet  slipped  its  peg, 
And  clashing  on  the  floor,  congealed  her  blood 
And  sent  both  hands  to  terror-smitten  eyes, 


222  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

She  trembling,  ready  to  yield  up  the  ghost? 
Right  merry  was  it !     Finally  he  touched 
On  matters  nearer,  things  she  had  foreboded 
And  this  one  time  must  needs  lend  hearing  to, 
And  end  so  sorry  business  ere  woe  came, 
Like  a  true  maid  and  honest,  as  she  was. 
So,  tutoring  the  tremble  on  her  lip 
And  holding  back  hot  tears,  she  gave  reply 
With  such  discretion  as  straight  tied  his  tongue, 
Albeit  he  lacked  not  boldness  in  discourse : 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  sir,  you  speak  but  in  jest ! 
Lightly,  not  meaning  it,  in  courtier-way. 
I  have  heard  said  that  ladies  at  the  Court  — 
I  judge  them  not !  —  have  most  forgiving  ears, 
And  list  right  willingly  to  idle  words, 
Listen  and  smile  and  never  stain  a  cheek. 
Yet  not  such  words  your  father's  son  should  use 
With  me,  my  father's  daughter.     You  forget 
What  should  most  precious  be  to  memory's  heart, 
Love  that  dared  death  ;  and  so,  farewell."     Farewell 
It  was  in  truth ;  for  after  that  one  time, 
Though  he  had  fain  with  passion-breathed  vows 
Besieged  that  marble  citadel  her  breast, 
He  got  no  speech  of  her :  she  chose  her  walks ; 
Let  only  moon  and  star  look  on  the  face 
That  could  well  risk  the  candor  of  the  sun ; 
Ran  not  to  lattice  at  each  sound  of  hoof; 
By  stream  or  hedge-row  plucked  no  pansies  more, 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  223 

Fearing  the  sad  fate  of  Persephone, 
Herself  up-gathered  in  Sicilian  fields  ; 
At  chapel  —  for  one  needs  to  chapel  go 
A-Sunday  —  glanced  not  either  right  or  left, 
But  with  black  eyelash  wedded  to  her  cheek 
Knelt  there  impassive,  like  the  marble  girl 
That  at  the  foot-end  of  his  father's  tomb, 
Inside  the  chancel  where  the  Wyndhams  lay, 
Through  the  long  years  her  icy  vigil  kept. 

As  leaves  turn  into  flame  at  the  frost's  touch, 
So  Richard's  heart  on  coldness  fed  its  fire, 
And  burned  with  surfeit  of  indifference. 
All  flavor  and  complexion  of  content 
Went  out  of  life  ;  what  served  once  served  no  more. 
His  hound  and  falcon  ceased  to  pleasure  him ; 
He  read  —  some  musty  folios  there  were 
On  shelf  —  but  even  in  brave  Froissart's  page, 
Where,  God  knows,  there  be  wounds  enough,  no 

herb 

Nor  potion  found  he  to  purge  sadness  with. 
The  gray  dust  gathered  on  the  leaf  unturned, 
And  then  the  spider  drew  his  thread  across. 
Certain  bright  coins  that  he  was  used  to  count 
With  thrill  at  fingers'  ends  uncounted  lay, 
Suddenly  worthless,  like  the  conjurer's  gold 
That  midst  the  jeers  and  laughter  of  the  crowd 
Turns  into  ashes  in  the  rustic's  hand. 
Soft  idleness  itself  bore  now  a  thorn 


224  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Two-pronged  with  meditation  and  desire. 
The  cold  Griselda  that  would  none  of  him ! 
The  fair  Griselda !     Not  alone  by  day, 
With  this  most  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet, 
But  in  the  weird  and  unsubstantial  sphere 
Of  slumber  did  her  beauty  hold  him  thrall. 
Herself  of  late  he  saw  not ;  't  was  a  wraith 
He  worshipped,  a  vain  shadow.     Thus  he  pined 
From  dawn  to  dusk,  and  then  from  dusk  to  dawn, 
Of  that  miraculous  infection  caught 
From  any-colored  eyes,  so  they  be  sweet. 
Strange  that  a  man  should  let  a  maid's  slim  foot 
Stamp  on  his  happiness  and  quench  it  quite ! 

With  what  snail-pace  the  traitor  time  creeps  by 
When  one  is  out  with  fortune  and  undone ! 
How  tauntingly  upon  the  dial's  plate 
The  shadow's  finger  points  the  dismal  hour ! 
Thus  Wyndham,  with  hands  clasped  behind  his 

back, 

Watching  the  languid  and  reluctant  sun 
Fade  from  the  metal  disk  beside  the  door. 
The  hours  hung  heavy  up  there  on  the  hill, 
Where  life  was  little  various  at  best 
And  merriment  had  long  since  taken  flight. 
Sometimes  he  sat  and  conned  the  flying  clouds 
Till  on  dusk's  bosom  nestled  her  one  star, 
And  spoke  no  word,  nor  seemed  alive  at  all, 
But  a  mere  shape  and  counterfeit  of  life ; 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  225 

Or,  urged  by  some  swift  hunger  for  green  boughs, 

Would  bid  the  hound  to  heel,  and  disappear 

Into  the  forest,  with  himself  communing 

For  lack  of  gossip.     So  do  lonely  men 

Make  themselves  tedious  to  their  tedious  selves. 

Thus  he  once  passed  in  a  white  blaze  of  noon 

Under  his  oaks,  and  muttered  as  he  went : 

"  '  My  father's  daughter  '  and  '  your  father's  son  ' ! 
Faith,  but  it  was  a  shrewd  and  nimble  phrase, 
And  left  me  with  no  fitting  word  to  say. 
The  wench  hath  wit  and  matter  of  her  own, 
And  beauty,  that  doth  seldom  mate  with  wit. 
Nature  hath  painted  her  a  proper  brown  — 
A  russet-colored  wench  that  knows  her  worth. 
And  mincing,  too  —  should  have  her  ruff  propped 

up 

With  supertasses,  like  a  dame  at  Court, 
And  go  in  cloth-of-gold.     I  '11  get  a  suit 
Of  Genoa  velvet,  and  so  take  her  eye. 
Has  she  a  heart  ?     The  ladies  of  Whitehall 
Are  not  so  skittish,  else  does  Darrell  lie 
Most  villainously.     Often  hath  he  said 
The  art  of  blushing 's  a  lost  art  at  Court. 
If  so,  good  riddance !     This  one  here  lets  love 
Play  beggar  to  her  prudery,  and  starve, 
Feeding  him  ever  on  looks  turned  aside. 
To  be  so  young,  so  fair,  and  wise  withal ! 
Lets  love  starve  ?    Nay,  I  think  starves  merely  me, 


226  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

And  gives  to  others  gracious  nourishment. 

For  when  was  ever  woman  logical 

Both  day  and  night-time  ?     Not  since  Adam  fell ! 

I  doubt  a  lover  somewhere.     What  shrewd  bee 

Hath  buzzed  betimes  about  this  clover-top  ? 

Belike  some  scrivener's  clerk  at  Bideford, 

With  long  goose-quill  and  inkhorn  at  his  thigh  — 

Methinks  I  see  the  parchment  face  of  him ; 

Or  one  of  those  swashbuckler  Devon  lads 

That  haunt  the  inn  there,  with  red  Spanish  gold, 

Rank  scurvy  knaves,  ripe  fruit  for  gallows-tree ; 

Or    else     the     sexton's     son "  —  here    Wyndham 

laughed, 

Though  not  a  man  of  mirth ;  indeed,  a  man 
Of  niggard  humor  ;  but  that  sexton's  son  — 
Lean  as  the  shadow  cast  by  a  church  spire, 
Eyes  deep  in  the   sockets,  noseless,  high   cheek- 
boned, 

Like  nothing  in  the  circle  of  this  earth 
But  a  death's  head  that  from  a  mural  slab 
Within  the  chancel  leers  through  sermon-time, 
Making  a  mock  of  poor  mortality. 
The  fancy  touched  him,  and  he  laughed  a  laugh 
That  from  his  noonday  slumber  roused  an  owl 
Snug  in  his  oaken  hermitage  hard  by. 
A  very  rare  conceit  —  the  sexton's  son  ! 

Not   he,   forsooth ;   he   smacked  of  churchyard 
mould 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  227 

And  musty  odors  of  moth-eaten  palls  — 

A  living  death,  a  walking  epitaph  ! 

No  lover  that  for  tingling  flesh  and  blood 

To  rest  soft  cheek  on  and  change  kisses  with. 

Yet  lover  somewhere  ;  from  his  sly  cocoon 

Time  would  unshell  him.     In  the  interim 

What  was  to  do  but  wait,  and  mark  who  strolled 

Of  evenings  up  the  hill-path  and  made  halt 

This  side  the  coppice  at  a  certain  gate  ? 

For  by  that  chance  which  ever  serves  ill  ends, 

Within  the  slanted  shadow  of  The  Towers 

The  maid  Griselda  dwelt.     Her  gray  scarred  sire 

Had  for  cloth  doublet  changed  the  steel  cuirass, 

The  sword  for  gardener's  fork,  and  so  henceforth 

In  the  mild  autumn  and  sundown  of  life, 

Moving  erect  among  his  curves  and  squares 

Of  lily,  rose,  and  purple  flower-de-luce, 

Set  none  but  harmless  squadrons  in  the  field  — 

Save  now  and  then  at  tavern,  where  he  posed, 

Tankard  in  hand  and  prattling  of  old  days, 

A  white-mustached  epitome  of  wars. 

How  runs  the  proverb  touching  him  who  waits  ? 
Who  waits  shall  have  the  world.     Time's  heir  is  he, 
Be  he  but  patient.     Thus  the  thing  befell 
Wherefrom  grew  all  this  history  of  woe  : 
Haunting  the  grounds  one  night,  as  his  use  was 
Who  loved  the  dark  as  bats  and  owlets  do, 
Wyndham  got  sound  of  voices  in  the  air 


228  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

That  did  such  strange  and  goblin  changes  ring 

As  left  him  doubtful  whence  the  murmurs  came, 

Now  here,  now  there,  as  they  were  winged  things  — 

Such  trick  plays  Echo  upon  hapless  wights 

Chance-caught  in  lonely  places  where  she  dwells. 

Anon  a  laugh  rang  out,  melodious, 

Like  the  merle's  note  when  its  ecstatic  heart 

Is  packed  with  summer-time ;  then  all  was  still  — 

So  still  the  soul  of  silence  seemed  to  grieve 

The  loss  of  that  sweet  laughter.     In  his  tracks 

The  man  stopped  short,  and  listened.     As  he  leaned 

And  craned  his  neck,  and  peered  into  the  gloom, 

And  would  the  fabulous  hundred  eyes  were  his 

That  Argus  in  the  Grecian  legend  had, 

He  saw  two  figures  moving  through  a  drift 

Of  moonlight  that  lay  stretched  across  the  lawn  : 

A  man's  tall  shape,  a  slim  shape  close  at  side, 

Her  palm  in  tender  fashion  pressed  to  his, 

The  woven  snood  about  her  shoulders  fallen, 

And  from  the  sombre  midnight  of  her  hair 

An  ardent  face  out-looking  like  a  star  — 

As  in  a  vision  he  saw  this,  for  straight 

They  vanished.     Where  those  silvery  shadows  were 

Was  nothing.     Had  he  dreamed  it  ?     Had  he  gone 

Mad  with  much  thinking  on  her,  and  so  made 

Ghosts  of  his  own  sick  fancies  ?     Like  a  man 

Carved  out  of  alabaster  and  set  up 

Within  a  woodland,  he  stood  rooted  there, 

Glimmering  wanly  under  pendent  boughs. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  229 

Spell-bound  he  stood,  in  very  woful  plight, 

Bewildered ;  and  then  presently  with  shock 

Of  rapfc  pulses  hammering  at  his  heart, 

As  mad  besiegers  hammer  at  a  gate, 

To  life  came  back,  and   turned   and  would   have 

flown 

From  that  accursed  spot  and  all  that  was, 
When  once  more   the  girl's  laughter  witched    the 

night, 

And  melted,  and  the  silence  grieved  anew. 
Like  lead  his  feet  were,  and  he  needs  must  halt. 
Close  upon  this,  but  farther  off,  a  voice 
From  somewhere  —  Echo  at  her  trick  again  !  — 
Took  up  the  rhyme  of  Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more. 

It  was  with  doubt  and  trembling 
I  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Go,  take  her  answer,  bird-on-bough, 
That  all  the  world  may  hear  — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  morel 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  tawny  throat, 
Upon  the  wayside  tree, 
How  fair  she  is,  how  true  she  is, 
How  dear  she  is  to  me  — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  'more  I 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  tawny  throat, 
And  through  the  summer  long 


230  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

The  winds  among  the  clover-tops, 
And  brooks,  for  all  their  silvery  stops, 
Shall  envy  you  the  song  — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more. 

The  fierce  Malayans  have  an  arrow  steeped 
In  some  strange  drug  whose  subtile  properties 
Are  such  that  if  the  point  but  prick  the  skin 
Death  stays  there.     Like  to  that  fell  cruel  shaft 
This  slender  rhyme  was.     Through  the  purple  dark 
Straight  home  it  sped,  and  into  Wyndham's  veins 
Its  drop  of  sudden  poison  did  distil. 
Now  no  sound  was,  save  when  a  dry  twig  snapped 
And  rustled  softly  down  from  bough  to  bough, 
Or  on  its  pebbly  shoals  the  narrow  brook 
Made  intermittent  murmur.     "  So,  't  is  he  !  " 
Thus  Wyndham  breathing  thickly,  with  his  eyes 
Dilating  in  the  darkness,  "  Darrell  —  he  ! 
I  set  my  springe  for  other  game  than  this ; 
Of  hare  or  rabbit  dreamed  I,  not  of  wolf. 
His  freqiient  visitations  have  of  late 
Perplexed  me  ;  now  the  riddle  reads  itself. 
A  proper  man,  a  very  proper  man  ! 
A  fellow  that  burns  Trinidado  leaf 
And  sends  smoke  through' his  nostril  like  a  flue! 
A  fop,  a  hanger-on  of  willing  skirts  — 
A  murrain  on  him  !     Would  Elizabeth 
In  some  mad  freak  had  clapped  him  in  the  Tower  — 
Ay,  through  the  Traitor's  Gate.     Would  he  were 
dead. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  231 

Within  the  year  what  worthy  men  have  died, 
Persons  of  substance,  civic  ornaments, 
And  here 's  this  gilt  court-butterfly  on  wing ! 

0  thou  most  potent  lightning  in  the  cloud, 
Prick  me  this  fellow  from  the  face  of  earth ! 

1  would  the  Moors  had  got  him  in  Algiers 
What  time  he  harried  them  on  land  and  sea, 
And  done  their  will  with  scimitar  or  cord 
Or  flame  of  fagot,  and  so  made  an  end ; 

Or  that  some  shot  from  petronel  or  bow 

Had  winged  him  in  the  folly  of  his  flight. 

Well  had  it  been  if  the  Inquisitors, 

With  rack  and  screw,  had  laid  black  claw  on  him  !  " 

In  days  whose  chronicle  is  writ  in  blood 

The  richest  ever  flowed  in  English  veins 

Some  foul  mischance  in  this  sort  might  have  been ; 

For  at  dark  Fortune's  feet  had  Darrell  flung 

In  his  youth's  flower  a  daring  gauntlet  down. 

A  beardless  stripling,  at  that  solemn  hour 
When,  breaking  its  frail  filaments  of  clay, 
The  mother's  spirit  soared  invisible, 
The  younger  son,  unhoused  as  well  he  knew, 
Had  taken  horse  by  night  to  London  town, 
With  right  sore  heart  and  nought  else  in  his  scrip 
But  boyish  hope  to  footing  find  at  Court  — 
A  page's  place,  belike,  with  some  great  lord, 
Or  some  small  lord,  that  other  proving  shy 
Of  merit  that  had  not  yet  chipped  its  shell. 


232  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Day  after  day,  in  weather  foul  or  fair, 

With  lackeys,  hucksters,  and  the  commoner  sort, 

At  Whitehall  and  Westminster  he  stood  guard, 

Reading  men's  faces  with  inquiring  eye. 

There  the  lords  swarmed,  some  waspish  and  some 

bland,  ; 

But  none  would  pause  at  plucking  of  the  sleeve 
To  hearken  to  him,  and  the  lad  had  died 
On  London  stones  for  lack  of  crust  to  gnaw 
But  that  he  caught  the  age's  malady, 
The  something  magical  that  was  in  air, 
And  made  men  poets,  heroes,  demigods  — 
Made  Shakespeare,  Raleigh,  Grenville,  Oxenham, 
And  set  them  stars  in  the  fore-front  of  Time. 
In  fine,  young  Darrell  drew  of  that  same  air 
A  valiant  breath,  and  shipped  with  Francis  Drake, 
Of  Tavistock,  to  sail  the  Spanish  seas 
And  teach  the  heathen  manners,  with  God's  aid; 
And  so,  among  lean  Papists  and  black  Moors, 
He,  with  the  din  of  battle  in  his  ears, 
Struck  fortune.     Who  would  tamely  bide  at  home 
At  beck  and  call  of  some  proud  swollen  lord 
Not  worth  his  biscuit,  or  at  Beauty's  feet 
Sit  making  sonnets,  when  was  work  to  do 
Out  yonder,  sinking  Philip's  caravels 
At  sea,  and  then  by  way  of  episode 
Setting  quick  torch  l  to  pirate-nests  ashore  ? 

1  Sir  Francis  Drake  called  this  "  singeing  the  King  of  Spayne's 
beard." 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  233 

Brave   sport   to   singe   the  beard  o'  the  King  of 

Spain  ! 

Brave  sport,  but  in  the  end  he  dreamed  of  home  — 
Of  where  the  trout-brook  lisped  among  the  reeds, 
Of  great  chalk  cliffs  and  leagues  of  yellow  gorse, 
Of  peaceful  lanes,  of  London's  roaring  streets, 
The  crowds,  the  shops,  the  pageants  in  Cheapside, 
And  heard  the  trumpets  blaring  for  the  Queen 
When  't  was  the  wind  that  whistled  in  the  shrouds 
Off  Cadiz.     Ah,  and  softer  dreams  he  had 
Of  an  unnamed  and  sweetest  mystery, 
And  from  the  marble  of  his  soul's  desire 
Hewed  out  the  white  ideal  of  his  love  — 
A  new  Pygmalion.     All  things  drew  him  home, 
This  mainly.     Foot  on  English  earth  once  more, 
Dear  earth  of  England  !  his  propitious  fame 
A  thorn  in  none  but  crooked  Envy's  side, 
He  went  cross-gartered,  with  a  silken  rose 
Fixed  to  his  lovelock,  diamond  brooch  at  hat 
Looping  one  side  up  very  gallantly, 
And  changed  his  doublet's  color  twice  a  day. 
Ill  fare  had  given  his  softer  senses  edge  ; 
Good  fortune,  later,  bade  him  come  to  dine, 
Mild  Spenser's  scholar,  Philip  Sidney's  friend. 
So  took  he  now  his  ease  ;  in  Devonshire, 
When  Town  was  dull,  or  he  had  need  at  heart 
For  sight  of  Wyndham  Towers  against  the  sky  ; 
But  chiefly  did  he  bask  him  by  the  Thames, 


234  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

For  there    'twas  that  Young  England  froze   and 

thawed 
By  turns  in  GLORIANA'S  frown  and  smile. 

As  some  wild  animal  that  gets  a  wound, 
And  prescience  hath  of  death,  will  drag  itself 
Back  to  its  cavern  sullenly  to  die, 
And  would  not  have  heaven's  airs  for  witnesses, 
So  Wyndham,  shrinking  from  the  very  stars 
And  tell-tale  places  where  the  moonlight  fell, 
Crept  through  the  huddled  shadows  back  to  hall, 
And  in  a  lonely  room  where  no  light  was, 
Save  what  the  moon  made  at  the  casement  there, 
Sat  pondering  his  hurt,  and  in  the  dark 
Gave  audience  to  a  host  of  grievances. 
For  never  comes  reflection,  gay  or  grave, 
But  it  brings  with  it  comrades  of  its  hue. 
So  did  he  fall  to  thinking  how  his  day 
Declined,  and  how  his  narrow  life  had  run 
Obscurely  through  an  age  of  great  events 
Such  as  men  never  saw,  nor  will  again 
Until  the  globe  be  riven  by  God's  fire. 
Others  had  ventured  for  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Knaves  of  no  parts  at  all,  and  got  renown 
(By  force  of  circumstance  and  not  desert), 
While  he  up  there  on  that  rock-bastioned  coast 
Had  rotted  like  some  old  hulk's  skeleton, 
Whose  naked  and  bleached  ribs  the  lazy  tide 
Laps  day  by  day,  and  no  man  thinks  of  more. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  235 

Then  was  jade  Fortune  in  her  lavish  mood. 
Why  had  he  not  for  distant  Colchis  sailed 
And  been  the  Jason  of  these  Argonauts  ? 
True,  some  had  come  to  block  on  Tower  Hill, 
Or  quittance  made  in  a  less  noble  sort ; 
Still  they  had  lived,  from  life's  high-mantling  cup 
Had  blown  the  bead.     In  such  case,  if  one's  head 
Be  of  its  momentary  laurel  stripped 
And  made  a  show  of,  stuck  on  Temple  Bar 
Or  at  the  Southwark  end  of  London  Bridge, 
What  mattered  it  ?     At  worst  man  dies  but  once  — 
So  far  as  known.     One  may  not  master  death, 
But  life  should  be  one's  lackey.     He  had  been 
Time's  dupe  and  bondman ;  ever  since  his  birth 
Had  walked  this  planet  with  his  eye  oblique, 
Grasped  what  was  worthless,  what  were  most  dear 

missed ; 

Missed  love  and  fame,  and  all  the  goodly  things 
Fame  gets  a  man  in  England  —  the  Queen's  smile, 
Which  means,  when  she  's  in  humor,  abbey-lands, 
Appointments,  stars  and  ribbons  for  the  breast, 
And  that  sleek  adulation  that  takes  shape 
In  the  down-drooping  of  obsequious  lids 
When  one  ascends  a  stair  or  walks  the  pave. 
Good  Lord !  but  it  was  excellent  to  see 
How  Expectation  in  the  ante-room 
Crooks  back  to  Greatness  passing  to  the  Queen  — 
"  Kind  sir !  "  "  Sweet  sir ! "   "I  prithee  speed  my 

suit ! " 


236  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

'T  was  somewhat  to  be  flattered,  though  by  fools, 

For  even  a  fool's  coin  hath  a  kind  of  ring. 

Yet  after  all  —  thus  did  the  grapes  turn  sour 

To  master  Fox,  in  fable  —  who  would  care 

To  moil  and  toil  to  gain  a  little  fame, 

And  have  each  rascal  that  prowls  under  heaven 

Stab  one  for  getting  it  ?     Had  he  wished  power, 

The  thing  was  in  the  market-place  for  sale 

At  stated  rates  —  so  much  for  a  man's  soul ! 

His  was  a  haughty  spirit  that  bent  not, 

And  one  to  rise  had  need  to  cringe  and  creep. 

So  had  his  brother  into  favor  crawled, 

Like  the  cold  slug  into  the  lily's  heart, 

And  battened  in  the  sun.     At  thought  of  him, 

Forgotten  for  a  moment,  Wyndham  winced, 

And  felt  his  wound.     "  Why  bides  he  not  in  Town 

With  his  blond  lovelock  and  wench-luring  ways  — 

There  runs  his  fox!     What  foul  fiend  sends  him 

here 

To  Wyndham  Towers  ?     Is  there  not  space  enough 
In  this  our  England  he  needs  crowd  me  so  ? 
Has  London  sack  upon  his  palate  staled, 
That  he  must  come  to  sip  my  Devon  cream  ? 
Are  all  maids  shut  in  nunneries  save  this  one  ? 
What  magic  philtre  hath  he  given  her 
To  thaw  the  ice  that  melted  not  for  me  ? 
Rich  is  he  now  that  at  his  setting  forth 
Had  not  two  silver  pieces  to  his  purse. 
It  is  his  brave  apparel  dazzles  her. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  237 

Thus  puts  he  bound  and  barrier  to  my  love. 
Another  man  were  he  abused  as  I  ... 
I  will  no  more  of  him  !     If  I  but  dared  — 
Nay,  I  dare  not.     I  have  fawn's  blood,  I  think ; 
I  would,  and  dare  not !  "     Thrice  the  hooded  clock 
Solemnly,  like  some  old  Carthusian  monk 
With  wrinkled  face  half  seen  beneath  his  cowl, 
Intoned  the  quarter.     Memory  went  not  back 
When  this  was  not  a  most  familiar  sound, 
Yet  as  each  stroke  on  the  dead  silence  fell 
Wyndham    turned,    startled.     Now    the   sanguine 

moon, 

To  clouded  opal  changing  momently, 
Rose  sheer  above  the  pine-trees'  ragged  edge, 
And   through    the  wide  -  flung  casement  reaching 

hand 

With  cold  and  spectral  finger  touched  the  plates 
Of  his  dead  father's  armor  till  it  gleamed 
One  mass  of  silver.     There  it  stood  complete, 
That  august  panoply  which  once  struck  dread 
To  foemen  on  the  sunny  plains  of  France, 
Menacing,  terrible,  this  instant  stood, 
With  vizard  down  and  jousting-lance  at  charge 
As  if  that  crumbled  knight  were  quick  within. 

A  footfall  on  the  shingle  walk  below 
Grated,  a  footfall  light  as  Mercury's 
Disdaining  earth,  and  Wyndham  in  the  dark, 
Half  crouched  upon  the  settle  with  his  nails 


238  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Indenting  the  soft  wood-work,  held  his  breath. 
Then  suddenly  a  blind  rage  like  a  flame 
Swept  over  him  and  hurled  him  to  his  feet  — 
Such  rage  as  must  have  seized  the  soul  of  Cain 
Meeting  his  brother  in  the  stubble-field. 
Anon  came  one  that  hummed  a  blithe  sea-song, 
As  he  were  fresh  from  tavern  and  brave  cheer, 
And  held  the  stars  that  blinked  there  in  the  blue 
Boon  comrades.     Singing  in  high-hearted  way, 
His  true-love's  kiss  a  memory  on  his  lip, 
Straight  on  he  came  to  unrenowned  end 
Whose  dream  had  been  in  good  plate  mail  to  die 
On  some  well-foughten  field,  at  set  of  sun, 
With  glorious  peal  of  trumpets  on  his  ear 
Proclaiming  victory.     So  had  he  dreamed. 
And  there,  within  an  arch  at  the  stair-top 
And  screened  behind  a  painted  hanging-cloth 
Of  coiled  gold  serpents  ready  to  make  spring, 
Ignoble  Death  stood,  his  convulsive  hand 
Grasping  a  rapier  part-way  down  the  blade 
To  deal  the  blow  with  deadly-jewelled  hilt  — 
Black  Death,  turned  white  with  horror  of  himself. 
Straight  on  came  he  that  sang  the  blithe  sea-song ; 
And  now  his  step  was  on  the  stair,  and  now 
He  neared  the  blazoned  hanging-cloth,  and  now  .  .  . 

The  lights  were  out,  and  all  life  lay  in  trance 
On  floor  or  pallet,  muffled  to  the  chin, 
Each  in  his  mask  of  sullen-featured  death  — 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  239 

Fond  souls  that  recked  not  what  was  in  the  air, 
Else  had  the  dead  man's  scabbard  as  it  clashed 
Against  the  balustrade,  then  on  the  tiles, 
Brought  awkward  witness.     One  base  hind  there 

was 

Had  stolen  a  venison-pasty  on  the  shelf, 
And  now  did  penance ;  him  the  fall  half  roused 
From   dreadful   nightmare ;  once   he   turned   and 

gasped, 

Then  straightway  snored  again.     No  other  sound 
Within  the  dream-enchanted  house  was  heard, 
Save  that  the  mastiff,  lying  at  the  gate 
With  visionary  bone,  snarled  in  his  sleep. 
Secret  as  bridal-kiss  may  murder  be. 

Done  was  the  deed  that  could  not  be  undone 
Throughout  eternity.     O  silent  tongue 
That  would  blab  all  with  silence  !     What  to  do  ? 
How  hide  this  speechless  witness  from  men's  gaze  ? 
Living,  that  body  vexed  us ;  being  dead 
'T  is  like  to  give  us  trouble  and  to  spare. 
O  for  a  cavern  in  deep-bowelled  earth  ! 
Quick,  ere  the  dusky  petals  of  the  night 
Unclosing  bare  the  fiery  heart  of  dawn 
And  thus  undo  us  with  its  garish  light, 
Let  us  this  mute  and  pale  accusing  clay 
In  some  undreamed-of  sepulchre  bestow. 
But  where  ?     Hold  back  thy  fleet-wing'd  coursers, 
Time, 


240  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Whilst  we  bethink  us  !     Ah  —  such  place  there  is  ! 
Close,  too,  at  hand  —  a  place  wherein  a  man 
Might  lie  till  doomsday  safer  from  the  touch 
Of  prying  clown  than  is  the  spiced  dust 
Of  an  Egyptian  in  his  pyramid. 

At  a  dark  alcove's  end  of  that  long  hall, 
The  ancient  armor-room  in  the  east  wing, 
A  certain  door  (whereof  no  mortal  knew 
Save  Wyndham,  now  that  other  lay  a-cold) 
Was  to  the  panels  of  the  wall  so  set, 
And  with  such  devilish  shrewdness  overlaid 
By  carvings  of  wild-flower  and  curled  grape-leaf, 
That  one  not  in  the  favor  of  the  trick, 
Albeit  he  knew  such  mechanism  was, 
Ere  he  put  finger  on  the  secret  spring 
Had  need  of  Job  for  ancestor,  in  faith  ! 
You  pressed  a  rose,  a  least  suspected  rose, 
And  two  doors  turned  on  hinge,  the  inner  door 
Closing  a  space  of  say  some  six  feet  square, 
Unlighted,  sheathed  with  iron.     Doubtless  here 
The  mediaeval  Wyndhams  hid  their  plate 
When  things  looked  wicked  from  the  outer  wall, 
Or,  on  occasion,  a  grim  ruthless  lord 
Immured  some  inconvenient  two-faced  friend  — 
To  banquet  bidden,  and  kept  over  night. 
Such  pranks  were  played  in  Merrie  England  then. 
Sealed  in  the  narrow  compass  of  that  cell, 
Shut  from  God's  light  and  his  most  precious  air, 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  241 

A  man  might  have  of  life  a  half-hour's  lease 
If  he  were  hale  and  well-breathed  at  the  start. 


Hither  did  Richard  bear  his  brother's  corse 
And  fling  it  down.     Upon  the  stone-paved  floor 
In  a  thin  strip  of  moonlight  flung  it  down, 
And   then   drew  breath.     Perhaps   he    paused   to 

glance 

At  the  white  face  there,  with  the  strange  half-smile 
Outliving  death,  the  brightness  of  the  hair 
Lying  in  loops  and  tangles  round  the  brow  — 
A  seraph's  face  of  silver  set  in  gold, 
Such  as  the  deft  Italians  know  to  carve ; 
Perhaps  his  tiger's  blood  cooled  then,  perhaps 
Swift  pity  at  his  very  heart-strings  tugged, 
And  he  in  that  black  moment  of  remorse, 
Seeing  how  there  his  nobler  self  lay  slain, 
Had  bartered  all  this  jewel-studded  earth 
To  win  life's  color  back  to  that  wan  cheek. 
Ah,  let  us  hope  it,  and  some  mercy  feel, 
Since  each  at  compt  shall  need  of  mercy  have. 
Now  how  it  happened,  whether  't  was  the  wind, 
Or  whether  't  was  some  incorporeal  hand 
That  reached  down  through  the  dark  and  did  the 

thing, 

Man  knoweth  not,  but  suddenly  both  doors, 
Ere  one  could  utter  cry  or  stretch  an  arm, 
Closed  with  dull  clang,  and  there  in  his  own  trap 
Incontinent  was  red-stained  Richard  caught, 


242  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

And  as  by  flash  of  lightning  saw  his  doom. 

Call,  if  thou  wilt,  but  every  ear  is  stuffed 

With  slumber !     Shriek,    and  run   quick  frenzied 

hands 

Along  the  iron  sheathing  of  thy  grave  — 
For  't  is  thy  grave  —  no  egress  shalt  thou  find, 
No  lock  to  break,  no  subtile-sliding  bolt, 
No  careless  rivet,  no  half  loosened  plate 
For  dagger's  point  to  fret  at  and  pry  off 
And  let  a  stifling  mortal  get  to  air ! 

Angels  of  Light !  what  were  a  thousand  years 
Of  rankling  envy  and  contemned  love 
And  all  the  bitter  draughts  a  man  may  drink 
To  that  half  hour  of  Richard's  with  his  Dead  ? 


II 

THROUGH  silence,  gloom,  and  star-strown  paths  of 

Night 

The  breathless  hours  like  phantoms  stole  away. 
Black  lay  the  earth,  in  primal  blackness  wrapped 
Ere  the  great  miracle  once  more  was  wrought. 
A  chill  wind  freshened  in  the  pallid  East 
And  brought  sea-smell  of  newly  blossomed  foam, 
And  stirred  the  leaves  and  branch-hung  nests  of 

birds. 

Fainter  the  glow-worm's  lantern  glimmered  now 
In  the  marsh  land  and  on  the  forest's  hem, 
And  the  slow  dawn  with  purple  laced  the  sky 
Where  sky  and  sea  lay  sharply  edge  to  edge. 
The  purple  melted,  changed  to  violet, 
And  that  to  every  delicate  sea-shell  tinge, 
Blush-pink,  deep  cinnabar ;  then  no  change  was, 
Save  that  the  air  had  in  it  sense  of  wings, 
Till  suddenly  the  heavens  were  all  aflame, 
And  it  was  morning.     O  great  miracle ! 
O  radiance  and  splendor  of  the  Throne, 
Daily  vouchsafed  to  us !     Yet  saith  the  fool, 
"  There  is  no  God ! "     And  now  a  level  gleam, 
243 


244  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Thrust    like    a    spear-head    through    the    tangled 

boughs, 
Smote  Wyndham  turrets,  and  the  spell  was  broke. 

And  one  by  one,  on  pallet  stretched  or  floor, 
The  sleepers  wakened ;  each  took  up  afresh 
His  load  of  life ;  but  two  there  were  woke  not, 
Nor  knew  't  was  daybreak.     From  the  rusty  nail 
The  gateman  snatched  his  bunch  of  ancient  keys, 
And,  yawning,  vowed  the  sun  an  hour  too  soon ; 
The  scullion,  with  face  shining  like  his  pans, 
Hose  down  at  heel  and  jerkin  half  unlaced, 
On  hearthstone  knelt  to  coax  the  smouldering  log ; 
The  keeper  fetched  the  yelping  hounds  their  meat ; 
The  hostler  whistled  in  the  stalls ;  anon, 
With  rustling  skirt  and  slumber-freshened  cheek, 
The  kerchief'd   housemaid   tripped  from  room  to 

room 

(Sweet  Gillian,  she  that  broke  the  groom  his  heart), 
While,  wroth  within,  behind  a  high-backed  chair 
The  withered  butler  for  his  master  waited, 
Cursing  the  cook.     That  day  the  brewis  spoiled. 

That  day  came  neither  kinsman  to  break  bread. 
When  it  was  seen  that  both  had  lain  abroad, 
The  wolf-skins  of  their  couches  made  that  plain 
As  pike-staff,  or  the  mole  on  Gillian's  cheek, 
The  servants  stared.     Some  journey  called   them 
hence ; 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  245 

At  dead  of  night  some  messenger  had  come 

Of  secret  import,  may  be  from  the  Queen, 

And  they  paused  not  for  change  of  raiment  even. 

And  yet,  in  faith,  that  were  but  little  like ; 

Sir  Richard  had  scant  dealings  with  the  Court. 

Still  —  if  Northumberland  were  in  arms  again. 

'T  was  passing  strange.     No  beast  had  gone  from 

rack. 
How  had  they  gone,  then  ?     Who  looked  on  them 

last? 

Up  rose  the  withered  butler,  he  it  was  : 
They  supped  together,  of  no  journey  spoke, 
Spoke  little,  't  was  their  custom  ;  after  meal 
The  master's  brother  sallied  forth  alone, 
The  master  stayed  within.     "  That  did  he  not," 
Quoth  one,  "  I  saw  Sir  Richard  in  the  close 
I'  the  moonrise."     "  'T  was  eleven  on  the  stroke," 
Said  Gillian  softly,  "  he,  or  't  was  his  ghost  — 
Methought  his  face  was  whiter  than  my  smock  — 
Passed  through  the  courtyard,  and  so  into  house. 
Yet  slept  he  not  there ! "     And  that  other  one, 
The  guest  unwelcome,  kinsman  little  loved 
(How  these  shrewd  varlets  turn  us  inside  out 
At  kitchen-conclaves,  over  our  own  wine  !) 
Him  had  no  eye  seen  since  he  issued  forth 
As  curfew  sounded.     "  Call  me  lying  knave  "  — 
He  of  the  venison-pasty  had  the  word  — 
"  And  let  me  nevermore  dip  beak  in  ale 
Or  sit  at  trencher  with  good  smoking  meat, 


246  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

If  I  heard  not,  in  middle  of  the  night, 

The  cock  crow  thrice,  and  took  it  for  a  sign." 

"  So,  marry,  'twas  —  that  thou  wert  drunk  again." 

But  no  one  laughed  save  he  that  made  the  jest, 

Which  often  happens.     The  long  hours  wore  on, 

And  gloaming  fell.     Then  came  another  day, 

And  then  another,  until  seven  dawns 

In  Time's  slow  crucible  ran  ruddy  gold 

And  overflowed  the  gray  horizon's  edge ; 

And  yet  no  hosts  at  table  —  an  ill  thing  ! 

And  now  'twas  on  the  eve  of  Michaelmas. 

What  could  it  bode  ?     From  out  their  lethargy 
At  last  awaking,  searchers  in  hot  haste, 
Some  in  the  saddle,  some  afoot  with  hounds, 
Scoured  moor  and  woodland,  dragged  the  neighbor- 
ing weirs 

And  salmon-streams,  and  watched  the  wily  hawk 
Slip  from  his  azure  ambush  overhead, 
With  ever  a  keen  eye  for  carrion : 
But  no  man  found,  nor  aught  that  once  was  man. 
By  land  they  went  not ;  went  they  water-ways  ? 
Might  be,  from  Bideford  or  Ilfracombe. 
Mayhap  they  were  in  London,  who  could  tell  ? 
God  help  us !  do  men  melt  into  the  air  ? 
Yet  one  there  was  whose  dumb  unlanguaged  love 
Had  all  revealed,  had  they  but  given  heed. 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  armor-room 
The  savage  mastiff  stretched  himself,  and  starved. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  247 

Now  where  lags  he,  upon  what  alehouse  bench 
'Twixt  here  and  London,  who  shall  lift  this  weight  ? 
Were  he  not  slain  upon  the  Queen's  highway 
Ere  he  reached  Town,  or  tumbled  into  ford 
With  too  much  sack-and-sugar  under  belt, 
Then  was  his  face  set  homeward  this  same  hour. 
Why  lingers  he  ?     Ill  news,  't  is  said,  flies  fast, 
And  good  news  creeps  ;  then  his  must  needs  be  good 
That  lets  the  tortoise  pass  him  on  the  road. 
Ride,  Dawkins,  ride  !  by  flashing  tarn  and  fen 
And  haunted  hollow !     Look  not  where  in  chains 
On  Hounslow  Heath  the  malefactor  hangs, 
A  lasting  terror  !     Give  thy  roan  jade  spur, 
And  spare  her  not !     All  Devon  waits  for  thee, 
Thou,  for  the  moment,  most  important  man  ! 
A  sevennight  later,  when  the  rider  sent 
To  Town  drew  rein  before  The  Falcon  inn 
Under  the  creaking  of  the  windy  sign, 
And  slipped  from  saddle  with  most  valorous  call 
For  beer  to  wash  his  throat  out,  then  confessed 
He  brought  no  scrap  of  any  honest  news, 
The  last  hope  died,  and  so  the  quest  was  done. 
"  They  fared  afoot,"  quoth  one,  "  but  where  God 
knows." 

The  blackthorn  bloomed  anew,  and  the  long  grass 
Was  starred  with  flowers  that  once  Griselda  prized, 
But  plucked  not.     She,  poor  wench,  from  moon  to 
moon 


248  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

Waxed  pale  and  paler  :  of  no  known  disease, 
The  village-leech  averred,  with  lips  pursed  out 
And  cane  at  chin  ;  some  inward  fire,  he  thought, 
Consumed.     A  dark  inexplicable  blight 
Had  touched  her,  thinned  her,  till  of  that  sweet 

earth 

Scarce  more  was  left  than  would  have  served  to  grow 
A  lily.     Later,  at  a  fresh-turned  grave, 
From  out  the  maiden  strewments,  as  it  were, 
A  whisper  rose,  of  most  pathetic  breath, 
Of  how  one  maid  had  been  by  two  men  loved  — 
No  names,  God's  mercy !  —  and  that  neither  man 
Would  wed  her  :  why  ?  —  conjecture  faltered  there, 
For  whiter  was  she  than  new-drifted  snow, 
Or  bleached  lamb's  wool,  or  any  purest  thing, 
Such  stuff  in  sooth  as  Heaven  shapes  angels  of ; 
And  how  from  their  warm,  comfortable  beds 
These  two  men  wandered  out  into  the  night, 
Sore  stricken  and  distempered  in  their  mind, 
And  being  by  Satan  blinded  and  urged  on 
Flung  themselves  headlong  from  a  certain  crag 
That  up  Clovelly  way  o'erhangs  the  sea  — 
O'erhangs  the  sea  to  tempt  unhappy  folk. 
From  door  to  door  the  piteous  legend  passed, 
And  like  a  thrifty  beggar  took  from  each. 
And  when  the  long  autumnal  season  came 
To  that  bleak,  bitter  coast,  and  when  at  night 
The  deep  was  shaken,  and  the  pent  cloud  broke 
Crashing  among  the  lurid  hills  of  heaven, 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  249 

And  in  brief  sudden  swoonings  of  the  gale 
Contentious  voices  rose  from  the  sand-dunes, 
Then  to  low  sobs  and  murmurs  died  away, 
The  fishwives,  with  their  lean  and  sallow  cheeks 
Lit  by  the  flickering  driftwood's  ruddy  glow, 
Drew  closer  to  the  crane,  and  under  breath 
To  awestruck  maidens  told  the  fearful  tale. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
'T  was  said  that  once  the  Queen  reached  out  her 

hand  — 

This  was  at  Richmond  in  her  palace  there  — 
And  let  it  rest  on  Burleigh's  velvet  sleeve, 
And  spoke  —  right  stately  was  she  in  her  rouge: 
"  Prithee,  good  Master  Cecil,  tell  us  now 
Was  ?t  ever  known  what  ill  befell  those  men, 
Those  Wyndhams  ?     Were  they  never,  never  found  ? 
Look  you,  't  will  be  three  years  come  Michaelmas : 
'T  were  well  to  have  at  least  the  bones  of  them. 
'Fore  God,  sir !  this  is  something  should  be  seen  ! 
When  the  Armada,  which  God  smote  and  sunk, 
Threatened  our  Realm,  our  buckler  and  our  shield 
Were  such  stout  hearts  as  that  young  Wyndham 

was. 

The  elder  brother  —  well,  Heaven  made  us  all. 
Our  subjects  are  our  subjects,  mark  you  that. 
Not  found,  forsooth !     Why,  then,  they  should  be 

found  ! " 
Fain  had  my  good  Lord  Burleigh  solved  the  thing, 


250  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

And  smoothed  that  ominous  wrinkle  on  the  brow 
Of  her  Most  Sweet  Imperious  Majesty. 
Full  many  a  problem  his  statecraft  had  solved  — 
How  strangle  treason,  how  soothe  turbulent  peers, 
How  foil  the  Pope  and  Spain,  how  pay  the  Fleet  — 
Mere  temporal  matters ;  but  this  business  smelt 
Strongly  of  brimstone.     Bring  back  vanished  folk  ! 
That  could  not  Master  Cecil  if  he  would. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
Dark  were  the  days  that  came  to  Wyndham  Towers 
With  that  grim  secret  rusting  in  its  heart. 
On  the  sea's  side  along  the  fissured  wall 
The  lichen  spread  in  patches  of  dull  gold 
Up  to  the  battlements,  at  times  assailed 
By  sheeted  ghosts  of  mist  blown  from  the  sea, 
Now  by  the  whistling  arrows  of  the  sleet 
Pelted,  and  thrice  of  lightning  scorched  and  seamed, 
But  stoutly  held  from  dreary  year  to  year 
By  legions  of  most  venerable  rooks, 
Shrill  black-robed  prelates  of  the  righting  sort. 
In  the  wide  moat,  run  dry  with  summer  drought, 
Great  scarlet  poppies  lay  in  drifts  and  heaps, 
Like  bodies  fallen  there  in  some  vain  assault. 
Within,  decay  and  dolor  had  their  court  — 
Dolor,  decay,  and  silence,  lords  of  all. 
From  room  to  room  the  wind  went  shuddering 
On  some  vague  endless  quest ;  now  pausing  here 
To  lift  an  arras,  and  then  hurrying  on, 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  251 

To   some  fresh    clue,   belike !     The    sharp-nosed 

mouse 

Through  joist  and  floor  discreetly  gnawed  her  way, 
And  for  her  glossy  young  a  lodging  made 
In  a  cracked  corselet  that  once  held  a  heart. 
The  meditative  spider  undisturbed 
Wove  his  gray  tapestry  from  sill  to  sill. 
Over  the  transom  the  stone  eagle  drooped, 
With  one  wing  gone,  in  most  dejected  state 
Moulting  his  feathers.     A  blue  poisonous  vine, 
Whose  lucent  berry,  hard  as  Indian  jade, 
No  squirrel  tried  his  tooth  on,  June  by  June 
On  the  south  hill-slope  festered  in  the  sun. 
Man's  foot  came  not  there.     It  was  haunted  ground. 

The  red  leaf  withered  and  the  green  leaf  grew. 
An  oak  stood  where  an  acorn  tumbled  once, 
Ages  ago,  and  all  the  world  was  strange. 
Now,  in  that  year  King  Charles  the  Second  left 
Forever  the  soft  arms  of  Mistress  Gwynn 
And  wrapped  him  in  that  marble  where  he  lies, 
The  moulder'd  pile  with  its  entombed  Crime 
Passed  to  the  keep  of  a  brave  new-fledged  lord, 
Who,  liking  much  the  sane  and  wholesome  air 
That  bent  the  boughs  and  fanned  the  turret's  top, 
Cried,  "  Here  dwell  I !  "     So  fell  it  on  a  day 
The  stroke  of  mallets  and  the  screech  of  saws 
In  those  bleak  chambers  made  such  din  as  stopped 
The  careful  spider  half-way  up  his  thread, 


252  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

And  panic  sent  to  myriad  furtive  things 

That  dwelt  in  wainscots  and  loved  not  the  sun. 

Vainly  in  broken  phalanx  clamorous 

Did  the  scared  rooks  protest,  and  all  in  vain 

The  moths  on  indolent  white  damask  wings 

At  door  and  casement  rallied.     Wyndham  Towers 

Should  have  a  bride,  and  ghosts  had  word  to  quit. 

And  now,  behold  what  strange   thing  came  to 

pass. 

A  certain  workman,  in  the  eastern  wing 
Plying  his  craft  alone  as  the  day  waned  — 
One  Gregory  Nokes,  a  very  honest  soul, 
By  trade  wood-carver  —  stumbled  on  a  door 
Leading  to  nowhere  at  an  alcove's  end, 
A  double  door  that  of  itself  swung  back 
In  such  strange  way  as  no  man  ever  saw ; 
And  there,  within  a  closet,  on  the  flags 
Were  two  grim  shapes  which,  vaguely  seen  at  first 
In  the  half  light,  grew  presently  distinct  — 
Two  gnomes  or  vampires  seemed  they,  or  dire  imps 
Straight  from  the  Pit,  in  guise  fantastical 
Of  hose  and  doublet :  one  stretched  out  full  length 
Supine,  and  one  in  terror-stricken  sort 
Half  toppled  forward  on  the  bended  knee, 
Grasping  with  vise-like  grip  the  other's  wrist, 
As  who  should  say,  Arouse  thee,  sleep  no  more  ! 
But  said  it  not.     If  they  were  quick  or  dead, 
No  sign  they  gave  beyond  this  sad  dumb  show. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  253 

Blurred  one  face  was,  yet  luminous,  like  the  moon 
Caught  in  the  fleecy  network  of  a  cloud, 
Or  seen  glassed  on  the  surface  of  a  tarn 
When  the  wind  crinkles  it  and  makes  all  dim ; 
The  other,  drawn  and  wrenched  by  mortal  throes, 
And  in  the  aspect  such  beseeching  look 
As  might  befall  some  poor  wretch  called  to  compt 
On  the  sudden,  even  as  he  kneels  at  prayer, 
With  Mercy  !  turned  to  frost  upon  his  lip. 

Thus  much  saw  Nokes  within  the  closet  there 
Ere  he  drew  breath  ;  then  backing  step  by  step, 
The  chisel  clutched  in  still  uplifted  hand, 
His  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  ghosts,  he  reached 
An  open  window  giving  on  the  court 
Where  the  stone-cutters  were ;  to  them  he  called 
Softly,  in  whispers  under  his  curved  palm, 
Lest  peradventure  a  loud  word  should  rouse 
The  phantoms ;  but  ere  foot  could  climb  the  stair, 
Or  the  heart's  pulses  count  the  sum  of  "ten, 
Through   both  dread   shapes,  as  at  God's  finger- 
touch, 

A  shiver  ran,  the  wavering  outlines  broke, 
And  suddenly  a  chill  and  mist-like  breath 
Touched  Nokes's  cheek  as  he  at  casement  leaned, 
And  nought  was  left  of  that  most  piteous  pair 
Save  two  long  rapiers  of  some  foreign  make 
Lying  there  crossed,  a  mass  of  flaky  rust. 


254  WYNDHAM  TOWERS 

O  luckless  carver  of  dead  images, 
Saint's-head  or  gargoyle,  thou  hast  seen  a  sight 
Shall  last  thee  to  the  confines  of  the  grave ! 
Ill  were  thy  stars  or  ever  thou  wert  born 
That  thou  shouldst  look  upon  a  thing  forbid ! 
Now  in  thine  eye  shall  it  forever  live, 
And  the  waste  solitudes  of  night  inhabit 
With  direful  shadows  of  the  nether  world, 
Yet  leave  thee  lonely  in  the  throng  of  men  — 
Not  of  them,  thou,  but  creature  set  apart 
Under  a  ban,  and  doomed  henceforth  to  know 
The  wise  man's  scorn,  the  dull  man's  sorry  jest. 
For  who  could  credence  give  to  that  mad  tale 
Of  churchyard  folk  appearing  in  broad  day, 
And  drifting  out  at  casement  like  a  mist  ? 
Marry,  not  they  who  crowded  up  the  stair 
In  haste,  and  peered  into  that  empty  cell, 
And  had  half  mind  to  buffet  Master  Nokes, 
Standing  with  finger  laid  across  his  palm 
In  argumentative,  appealing  way, 
Distraught,  of  countenance  most  woe-begone. 
"  See  !  —  the   two  swords.      As   I  'm  a  Christian 

soul !  " 
"Odds,  man ! "  cried  one,  "thou  'st  been  a-dreamin', 

man. 
Cleave  to  thy  beer,  an'  let  strong  drink  alone  !  " 

So  runs  the  legend.     So  from  their  long  sleep 
Those  ghosts  arose  and  fled  across  the  night. 


WYNDHAM  TOWERS  255 

But  never  bride  came  to  that  dark  abode, 
For  wild  flames  swept  it  ere  a  month  was  gone, 
And  nothing  spared  but  that  forlorn  old  tower 
Whereon  the  invisible  fingers  of  the  wind 
Its  fitful  and  mysterious  dirges  play. 


THE   SISTERS'   TRAGEDY 

WITH   OTHER   POEMS 


THE   SISTERS'   TRAGEDY 

A.  D.   1670 

AGLAE,  a  widow. 

MURIEL,  her  unmarried  sister. 

IT  happened  once,  in  that  brave  land  that  lies 
Wrapped  half  the  year  in  mist  and  sombre  skies, 
Two  sisters  loved  one  man.     He  being  dead, 
Grief  loosed  the  lips  of  her  he  had  not  wed, 
And  all  the  passion  that  through  heavy  years 
Had  masked  in  smiles  unmasked  itself  in  tears. 
No  purer  love  may  mortals  know  than  this, 
The  hidden  love  that  guards  another's  bliss. 

High  in  a  turret's  westward-facing  room, 
Whose  painted  window  held  the  sunset's  bloom, 
The  two  together  grieving,  each  to  each 
Unveiled  her  soul  with  sobs  and  broken  speech. 
Both  still  were  young,  in  life's  rich  summer  yet ; 
And  one  was  dark,  with  tints  of  violet 
257 


258  THE  SISTERS'  TRAGEDY 

In  hair  and  eyes,  and  one  was  blond  as  she 
Who  rose  —  a  second  daybreak  —  from  the  sea, 
Gold-tressed  and  azure-eyed.     In  that  lone  place, 
Like  dusk  and  dawn,  they  sat  there  face  to  face. 

She  spoke  the  first  whose  strangely  silvering  hair 
No  wreath   had   worn,  nor   widow's   weed   might 

wear, 

And  told  her  blameless  love,  and  knew  no  shame  — 
Her  holy  love  that,  like  a  vestal  flame 
Beside  the  sacred  body  of  some  queen 
Within  a  guarded  crypt,  had  burned  unseen 
From  weary  year  to  year.     And  she  who  heard 
Smiled  proudly  through  her  tears  and  said  no  word, 
But,  drawing  closer,  on  the  troubled  brow 
Laid  one  long  kiss,  and  that  was  words  enow ! 

MURIEL 

Be  still,  my  heart !     Grown  patient  with  thine  ache 
Thou  shouldst  be  dumb,  yet  needs  must  speak,  or 

break. 
The  world  is  empty  now  that  he  is  gone. 

AGLAE 
Ay,  sweetheart ! 

MURIEL 

None  was  like  him,  no,  not  one. 
From  other  men  he  stood  apart,  alone 


THE  SISTERS'  TRAGEDY  259 

In  honor  spotless  as  unfallen  snow. 

Nothing  all  evil  was  it  his  to  know  ; 

His  charity  still  found  some  germ,  some  spark 

Of  light  in  natures  that  seemed  wholly  dark. 

He  read  men's  souls  ;  the  lowly  and  the  high 

Moved  on  the  self-same  level  in  his  eye. 

Gracious  to  all,  to  none  subservient, 

Without  offence  he  spake  the  word  he  meant  — 

His  word  no  trick  of  tact  or  courtly  art, 

But  the  white  flowering  of  the  noble  heart. 

Careless  he  was  of  much  the  world  counts  gain, 

Careless  of  self,  too  simple  to  be  vain, 

Yet  strung  so  finely  that  for  conscience'  sake 

He  would  have  gone  like  Cranmer  to  the  stake. 

I  saw  —  how  could  I  help  but  love  ?     And  you  — 

AGLAE  § 

At  this  perfection  did  I  worship  too  .  .  . 

'T  was  this  that  stabbed  me.    Heed  not  what  I  say  ! 

I  meant  it  not,  my  wits  are  gone  astray, 

"With  all  that  is  and  has  been.     No,  I  lie  — 

Had  he  been  less  perfection,  happier  I ! 

MURIEL 

Strange  words  and  wild  !     'T  is  the  distracted  mind 
Breathes  them,  not  you,  and  I  no  meaning  find. 

AGLAE 

Yet  't  were  as  plain  as  writing  on  a  scroll 
Had  you  but  eyes  to  read  within  my  soul.  — 


260  THE  SISTERS'  TRAGEDY 

How  a  grief  hidden  feeds  on  its  own  mood, 
Poisons  the  healthful  currents  of  the  blood 
With  bitterness,  and  turns  the  heart  to  stone ! 
I  think,  in  truth,  't  were  better  to  make  moan, 
And  so  be  done  with  it.     This  many  a  year, 
Sweetheart,  have  I  laughed  lightly  and  made  cheer, 
Pierced  through  with  sorrow ! 

Then  the  widowed  one 
With  sorrowfullest  eyes  beneath  the  sun, 
Faltered,  irresolute,  and  bending  low 
Her  head,  half  whispered, 

"  Dear,  how  could  you  know  ? 
What  masks  are  faces  !  —  yours,  unread  by  me 
These  seven  long  summers ;  mine,  so  placidly 
Shielding  my  woe  !     No  tremble  of  the  lip, 
No  cheek's  quick  pallor  let  our  secret  slip ! 
Mere  players  we,  and  she  that  played  the  queen, 
Now  in  her  homespun,  looks  how  poor  and  mean  ! 
How  shall  I  say  it,  how  find  words  to  tell 
What  thing  it  was  for  me  made  earth  a  hell 
That  else  had  been  my  heaven  !     'T  would  blanch 

your  cheek 

Were  I  to  speak  it.     Nay,  but  I  will  speak, 
Since  like  two  souls  at  compt  we  seem  to  stand, 
Where  nothing  may  be  hidden.     Hold  my  hand, 
But  look  not  at  me  !     Noble  't  was,  and  meet, 
To  hide  your  heart,  nor  fling  it  at  his  feet 


ELMWOOD  261 

To  lie  despised  there.     Thus  saved  you  our  pride 

And  that  white  honor  for  which  earls  have  died. 

You  were  not  all  unhappy,  loving  so ! 

I  with  a  difference  wore  my  weight  of  woe. 

My  lord  was  he.     It  was  my  cruel  lot, 

My  hell,  to  love  him  —  for  he  loved  me  not !  " 

Then  came  a  silence.     Suddenly  like  death 
The   truth   flashed  on  them,  and   each   held   her 

breath  — 

A  flash  of  light  whereby  they  both  were  slain, 
She  that  was  loved  and  she  that  loved  in  vain ! 


ELMWOOD 

IN   MEMORY  OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

HERE,  in  the  twilight,  at  the  welUknown  gate 
I  linger,  with  no  heart  to  enter  more. 
Among  the  elm-tops  the  autumnal  air 
Murmurs,  and  spectral  in  the  fading  light 
A  solitary  heron  wings  its  way 
Southward  —  save  this  no  sound  or  touch  of  life. 
Dark  is  that  window  where  the  scholar's  lamp 
Was  used  to  catch  a  pallor  from  the  dawn. 

Yet  I  must  needs  a  little  linger  here. 
Each  shrub  and  tree  is  eloquent  of  him, 


262  ELMWOOD 

For  tongueless  things  and  silence  have  their  speech. 

This  is  the  path  familiar  to  his  foot 

From  infancy  to  manhood  and  old  age ; 

For  in  a  chamber  of  that  ancient  house 

His  eyes  first  opened  on  the  mystery 

Of  life,  and  all  the  splendor  of  the  world. 

Here,  as  a  child,  in  loving,  curious  way, 

He  watched  the  bluebird's  coming ;  learned   the 

date 

Of  hyacinth  and  goldenrod,  and  made 
Friends  of  those  little  redmen  of  the  elms, 
And  slyly  added  to  their  winter  store 
Of  hazel-nuts  :  no  harmless  thing  that  breathed, 
Footed  or  winged,  but  knew  him  for  a  friend. 
The  gilded  butterfly  was  not  afraid 
To  trust  its  gold  to  that  so  gentle  hand, 
The  bluebird  fled  not  from  the  pendent  spray. 
Ah,  happy  childhood,  ringed  with  fortunate  stars  ! 
What  dreams  were  his  in  this  enchanted  sphere, 
What  intuitions  of  high  destiny  ! 
The  honey-bees  of  Hybla  touched  his  lips 
In  that  old  New- World  garden,  unawares. 

So  in  her  arms  did  Mother  Nature  fold 
Her  poet,  breathing  what  of  strange  and  sweet 
Into  his  eaj  —  the  state-affairs  of  birds, 
The  lore  of  dawn  and  sunset,  what  the  wind 
Said  in  the  treetops  —  fine,  unf athomed  things 
Henceforth  to  turn  to  music  in  his  brain : 


ELMWOOD  263 

A  various  music,  now  like  notes  of  flutes, 

And  now  like  blasts  of  trumpets  blown  in  wars. 

Later  he  paced  this  leafy  academe 

A  student,  drinking  from  Greek  chalices 

The  ripened  vintage  of  the  antique  world. 

And  here  to  him  came  love,  and  love's  dear  loss  ; 

Here  honors  came,  the  deep  applause  of  men 

Touched  to  the  heart  by  some  swift-winged  word 

That  from  his  own  full  heart  took  eager  flight  — 

Some  strain  of  piercing  sweetness  or  rebuke, 

For  underneath  his  gentle  nature  flamed 

A  noble  scorn  for  all  ignoble  deed, 

Himself  a  bondman  till  all  men  were  free. 

Thus  passed  his  manhood  ;  then  to  other  lands 
He  strayed,  a  stainless  figure  among  courts 
Beside  the  Manzanares  and  the  Thames. 
Whence,  after  too  long  exile,  he  returned 
With  fresher  laurel,  but  sedater  step 
And  eye  more  serious,  fain  to  breathe  the  air 
Where  through  the   Cambridge  marshes  the  blue 

Charles 

Uncoils  its  length  and  stretches  to  the  sea : 
Stream  dear  to  him,  at  every  curve  a  shrine 
For  pilgrim  Memory.     Again  he  watched 
His  loved  syringa  whitening  by  the  door, 
And  knew  the  catbird's  welcome  ;  in  his  walks 
Smiled  on  his  tawny  kinsmen  of  the  elms 
Stealing  his  nuts ;  and  in  the  ruined  year 


264  ELMWOOD 

Sat  at  his  widowed  hearthside  with  bent  brows 
Leonine,  frosty  with  the  breath  of  time, 
And  listened  to  the  crooning  of  the  wind 
In  the  wide  Elmwood  chimneys,  as  of  old. 
And  then  —  and  then  .  .  . 

The  afterglow  has  faded  from  the  elms, 
And  in  the  denser  darkness  of  the  boughs 
From  time  to  time  the  firefly's  tiny  lamp 
Sparkles.     How  often  in  still  summer  dusks 
He  paused  to  note  that  transient  phantom  spark 
Flash  on  the  air  —  a  light  that  outlasts  him  ! 

The  night  grows  chill,  as  if  it  felt  a  breath 
Blown  from  that  frozen  city  where  he  lies. 
All  things  turn  strange.     The  leaf  that  rustle. s  here 
Has  more  than  autumn's  mournfulness.     The  place 
Is  heavy  with  his  absence.     Like  fixed  eyes 
Whence  the  dear  light  of  sense  and  thought  has 

fled 

The  vacant  windows  stare  across  the  lawn. 
The  wise  sweet  spirit  that  informed  it  all 
Is  otherwhere.     The  house  itself  is  dead. 


O  autumn  wind  among  the  sombre  pines, 
Breathe  you  his  dirge,  but  be  it  sweet  and  low, 
With  deep  refrains  and  murmurs  of  the  sea, 
Like  to  his  verse  —  the  art  is  yours  alone. 


WHITE  EDITH  265 

His  once  —  you  taught  him.      Now  no  voice  but 

yours. 
Tender  and  low,  O  wind  among  the  pines ! 


WHITE   EDITH 

ABOVE  an  ancient  book,  with  a  knight's  crest 
In  tarnished  gold  on  either  cover  stamped, 
She  leaned,  and  read  —  a  chronicle  it  was 
In  which  the  sound  of  hautboys  stirred  the  pulse, 
And  masques  and  gilded  pageants  fed  the  eye. 
Though  here  and  there  the  vellum  page  was  stained 
Sanguine  with  battle,  chiefly  it  was  love 
The  stylus  held  —  some  wan-cheeked  scribe,  per- 
chance, 

That  in  a  mouldy  tower  by  candle-light 
Forgot  his  hunger  in  his  madrigals. 
Outside  was  winter :  in  its  winding-sheet 
The  frozen  Year  lay.     Silent  was  the  room, 
Save  when  the  wind  against  the  casement  pressed 
Or  a  page  rustled,  turned  impatiently, 
Or  when  along  the  still  damp  apple-wood 
A  little  flame  ran  that  chirped  like  a  bird  — 
Some  wren's  ghost  haunting  the  familiar  bough. 

With  parted  lips,  in  which  less  color  lived 
Than  paints  the   pale  wild-rose,  she   leaned  and 
read. 


266  WHITE  EDITH 

From  time  to  time  her  fingers  unawares 
Closed  on  the  palm ;  and  oft  upon  her  cheek 
The  pallor  died,  and  left  such  transient  glow 
As  might  from  some  rich  chapel  window  fall 
On  a  girl's  cheek  at  prayer.     So  moved  her  soul, 
From  this  dull  age  unshackled  and  divorced, 
In  far  moon-haunted  gardens  of  romance. 
But  once  the  wind  that  swept  the  palsied  oaks, 
As  if  new-pierced  with  sorrow,  came  and  moaned 
Close  by  the  casement ;  then  she  raised  her  eyes, 
The  light  of  dreams  still  fringing  them,  and  spoke : 
"  Tell  me,  good  cousin,  does  this  book  say  true  ? 
Is  it  so  fine  a  thing  to  be  a  queen  ? " 

As  if  a  spell  of  incantation  dwelt 
In  those  soft  syllables,  before  me  stood, 
Colored  like  life,  the  phantasm  of  a  maid 
Who,  in  the  savage  childhood  of  this  world, 
Was  crowned  by  error,  or  through  dark  intent 
Made  queen,  and  for  the  durance  of  one  day 
The  royal  diadem  and  ermine  wore. 
In   strange   sort   wore  —  for   this    queen   fed   the 

starved, 

The  naked  clothed,  threw  open  dungeon  doors ; 
Could  to  no  story  list  of  suffering 
But  the  full  tear  was  lovely  on  her  lash ; 
Taught  Grief  to  smile,  and  wan  Despair  to  hope  ; 
Upon  her  stainless  bosom  pillowed  Sin 
Repentant  at  her  feet  —  like  Him  of  old ; 


WHITE  EDITH  267 

Made  even  the  kerns  and  wild-men  of  the  fells, 
That  sniffing  pillage  clamored  at  the  gate, 
Gentler  than  doves  by  some  unknown  white  art, 
And  saying  to  herself,  "  So,  I  am  Queen  !  " 
With  lip  all  tremulous,  held  out  her  hand 
To  the  crowd's  kiss.     What  joy  to  ease  the  hurt 
Of  bruised  hearts  !  As  in  a  trance  she  walked 
That   live-long   day.     Then  night  came,  and   the 

stars, 

And  blissful  sleep.     But  ere  the  birds  were  called 
By  bluebell  chimes  (unheard  of  mortal  ear) 
To  matins  in  their  branch-hung  priories  — 
Ere  yet  the  dawn  its  gleaming  edge  lay  bare 
Like  to  the  burnished  axe's  subtle  edge, 
She,  from  her  sleep's  caresses  roughly  torn, 
The  meek  eyes  blinking  in  the  torches'  glare, 
Upon  a  scaffold  for  her  glory  paid 
Her  cheeks'  two  roses.     For  it  so  befell 
That  from  the  Northland  there  was  come  a  prince, 
With  a  great  clash  of  shields  and  trailing  spears 
Through  the  black  portals  of  the  breathless  night, 
To  claim  the  sceptre.     He  no  less  would  take 
Than  those  same  roses  for  his  usury. 
What  less,  in  faith  !     The  throne  was  rightly  his 
Of  that  sea-girdled  isle ;  so  to  the  block 
Needs  go  the  ringlets  and  the  white  swan-throat. 
A  touch  of  steel,  a  sudden  darkness,  then 
Blue  Heaven  and  all  the  hymning  angel-choir ! 
No  tears  for  her  —  keep  tears  for  those  who  live 


268  WHITE  EDITH 

To  mate  with  sin  and  shame,  and  have  remorse 

At  last  to  light  them  to  unhallowed  earth. 

Hers  no  such  low-hung  fortunes.     Thus  to  stand 

Supreme  one  instant  at  that  dizzy  height, 

With  no  hoarse  raven  croaking  in  her  ear 

The  certain  doom,  and  then  to  have  life's  rose 

Struck  swiftly  from  the  cheek,  and  so  escape 

Love's  death,  black  treason,  friend's  ingratitude, 

The  pang  of  separation,  chill  of  age, 

The  grief  that  in  an  empty  cradle  lies, 

And  all  the  unspoke  sorrow  women  know  — 

That  was,  in  truth,  to  have  a  happy  reign ! 

Has  thine  been  happier,  Sovereign  of  the  Sea, 

In  that  long-mateless  pilgrimage  to  death  ? 

Or  thine,  whose  beauty  like  a  star  illumed 

Awhile  the  dark  and  angry  sky  of  France, 

Thy  kingdom  shrunken  to  two  exiled  graves  ? 

Sweet  old-world  maid,  a  gentler  fate  was  yours  ! 

Would  he  had  wed  your  story  to  his  verse 

Who  from  the  misty  land  of  legend  brought 

Helen  of  Troy  to  gladden  English  eyes. 

There 's  many  a  queen   that   lived  her  grandeur 

out, 

Gray-haired  and  broken,  might  have  envied  you, 
Your  Majesty,  that  reigned  a  single  day  ! 

All  this,  between  two  heart-throbs,  as  it  were, 
Flashed    through   my   mind,   so   lightning-like    is 
thought. 


WHITE  EDITH  269 

With  lifted  eyes  expectant,  there  she  sat 
Whose  words  had  sent  my  fancy  over-sea, 
Her  lip  still  trembling  with  its  own  soft  speech, 
As  for  a  moment  trembles  the  curved  spray 
Whence  some  winged  melody  has  taken  flight. 
How  every  circumstance  of  time  and  place 
Upon  the  glass  of  memory  lives  again  !  — 
The  bleak  New  England  road  ;  the  level  boughs 
Like  bars  of  iron  across  the  setting  sun ; 
The  gray  ribbed  clouds  piled  up  against  the  West ; 
The  window  splashed  with  frost ;  the  firelit  room, 
And  in  the  antique  chair  that  slight  girl-shape, 
The  auburn  braid  about  the  saintly  brows 
Making  a  nimbus,  and  she  white  as  snow  ! 

"  Dear  Heart,"  I  said,  "  the  humblest  place  ;s 

best 

For  gentle  souls  —  the  throne's  foot,  not  the  throne. 
The  storms  that  smite  the  dizzy  solitudes 
Where  monarchs  sit  —  most  lonely  folk  are  they  !  — 
Oft  leave  the   vale  unscathed ;    there  dwells  con- 
tent, 

If  so  content  have  habitation  here. 
Never  have  I  in  annals  read  or  rhyme 
Of  queen  save  one  that  found  not  at  the  end 
The  cup  too  bitter ;  never  queen  save  one, 
And  she  —  her  empire  lasted  but  a  day ! 
Yet  that  brief  breath  of  time  did  she  so  fill 
With  mercy,  love,  and  holy  charity 


270  WHITE  EDITH 

As  more  rich  made  it  than  long-drawn-out  years 

Of  such  weed-life  as  drinks 'the  lavish  sun 

And  rots  unflower'd."     "  Straight  tell  me  of  that 

queen  ! " 

Cried  Edith  ;  "  Brunhild,  in  my  legend  here, 
Is  lovely  —  was  that  other  still  more  fair  ? 
And  had  she  not  a  Siegfried  at  the  court 
To  steal  her  talisman  ?  — that  Siegfried  did 
At  Giinther's  bidding.    Was  your  queen  not  loved  ? 
Tell  me  it  all !  "     With  chin  upon  her  palm 
Resting,  she  listened,  and  within  her  eyes 
The  sapphire  deepened  as  I  told  the  tale 
Of  the  girl-empress  in  the  dawn  of  Time  — 
A  flower  that  on  the  vermeil  brink  of  May 
Died,  with  its  folded  whiteness  for  a  shroud ; 
A  strain  of  music  that,  ere  it  was  mixed 
With  baser  voices,  floated  up  to  heaven. 

Without  was  silence,  for  the  wind  was  spent 
That  all  the  day  had  pleaded  at  the  door. 
Against  the  crimson  sunset  elm  and  oak 
Stood  black  and  motionless  ;  among  the  boughs 
The  sad  wind  slumbered.     Silence  filled  the  room, 
Save  when  from  out  the  crumbled  apple  branch 
Came  the  wren's  twitter,  faint,  and  fainter  now, 
Like  a  bird's  note  far  heard  in  twilight  woods. 
No  other  sound  was.     Presently  a  hand 
Stole  into  mine,  and  rested  there,  inert, 
Like  some  new-gathered  snowy  hyacinth, 


SEA  LONGINGS  271 

So  white  and  cold  and  delicate  it  was. 

I  know  not  what  dark  shadow  crossed  my  heart, 

What  vague  presentiment,  but  as  I  stooped 

To  lift  the  slender  fingers  to  my  lip, 

I  saw  it  through  a  mist  of  strangest  tears  — 

The  thin  white  hand  invisible  Death  had  touched  ! 


SEA  LONGINGS 

THE  first  world-sound  that  fell  upon  my  ear 
Was  that  of  the  great  winds  along  the  coast 
Crushing  the  deep-sea  beryl  on  the  rocks  — 
The  distant  breakers'  sullen  cannonade. 
Against  the  spires  and  gables  of  the  town 
The  white  fog  drifted,  catching  here  and  there 
At  over-leaning  cornice  or  peaked  roof, 
And  hung  —  weird  gonfalons.     The  garden  walks 
Were  choked  with  leaves,  and  on  their  ragged  biers 
Lay  dead  the  sweets  of  summer  —  damask  rose, 
Clove   pink,    old-fashioned,   loved    New   England 

flowers. 

Only  keen  salt  sea-odors  filled  the  air. 
Sea-sounds,  sea-odors  —  these  were  all  my  world. 

Hence  is  it  that  life  languishes  with  me 
Inland ;  the  valleys  stifle  me  with  gloom 
And  pent-up  prospect ;  in  their  narrow  bound 


272  SEA  LONGINGS 

Imagination  flutters  futile  wings. 

Vainly  I  seek  the  sloping  pearl-white  sand 

And  the  mirage's  phantom  citadels 

Miraculous,  a  moment  seen,  then  gone. 

Among  the  mountains  I  am  ill  at  ease, 

Missing  the  stretched  horizon's  level  line 

And  the  illimitable  restless  blue. 

The  crag-torn  sky  is  not  the  sky  I  love, 

But  one  unbroken  sapphire  spanning  all ; 

And  nobler  than  the  branches  of  a  pine 

Aslant  upon  a  mountain-torrent's  brink 

Are  the  strained  spars  of  some  great  battle-ship 

Ploughing  across  the  sunset.     No  bird's  lilt 

So  takes  me  as  the  whistling  of  the  gale 

Among  the  shrouds.     My  cradle-song  was  this, 

Strange  inarticulate  sorrows  of  the  sea, 

Blithe  rhythms  upgathered  from  the  Sirens'  caves. 

Perchance  of  earthly  voices  the  last  voice 

That  shall  an  instant  my  freed  spirit  stay 

On  this  world's  verge,  will  be  some  message  blown 

Over  the  dim  salt  lands  that  fringe  the  coast 

At  dusk,  or  when  the  tranced  midnight  droops 

With  weight  of  stars,  or  haply  just  as  dawn, 

Illumining  the  sullen  purple  wave, 

Turns  the  gray  pools  and  willow-stems  to  gold. 


THE  BELLS  AT  MIDNIGHT  273 


THE   BELLS   AT   MIDNIGHT1 


In  their  dark  House  of  Cloud 
The  three  weird  sisters  toil  till  time  be  sped ; 
One  unwinds  life,  one  ever  weaves  the  shroud, 

One  waits  to  part  the  thread. 


CLOTHO 

How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 
Ere  the  weary  task  is  done  ? 
How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 
Shall  the  fragile  thread  be  spun  ? 

LACHESIS 

'T  is  mercy  that  stays  her  hand, 
Else  she  had  cut  the  thread ; 
She  is  a  woman  too, 
Like  her  who  kneels  by  his  bed  ! 

ATROPOS 

Patience  !  the  end  is  come  ; 
He  shall  no  more  endure  :  . 
See  !  with  a  single  touch  !  — 
My  hand  is  swift  and  sure ! 

1  The  death  of  President  Garfield  was  announced  at  mid- 
night  by  the  tolling  of  church  bells  throughout  the  land. 


274  THE  BELLS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

H 

Two  Angels  pausing  in  their  flight 

FIRST  ANGEL 

Listen  !  what  was  it  fell 
An  instant  ago  on  my  ear  — 
A  sound  like  the  throb  of  a  bell 
From  yonder  darkling  sphere. 

SECOND  ANGEL 

The  planet  where  mortals  dwell ! 
I  hear  it  not  .  .  .  yes,  I  hear ; 
How  it  deepens  —  a  sound  of  dole  ! 

FIRST  ANGEL 

Listen  !     It  is  the  knell 

Of  a  passing  soul  — 

The  midnight  lamentation 

Of  some  stricken  nation 

For  a  chieftain's  soul ! 

It  is  just  begun, 

The  many-throated  moan  .  .  . 

Now  the  clangor  swells 

As  if  a  million  bells 

Had  blent  their  tones  in  one  ! 

Accents  of  despair 

Are  these  to  mortal  ear  ; 

But  all  this  wild  funereal  music  blown 


UNGUARDED  GATES  275 

And  sifted  through  celestial  air 

Turns  to  triumphal  paeans  here  ! 

Wave  upon  wave  the  silvery  anthems  flow ; 

Wave  upon  wave  the  deep  vibrations  roll 

From  that  dim  sphere  below. 

Come,  let  us  go  — 

Surely,  some  chieftain's  soul ! 


UNGUARDED  GATES 

open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates, 
Named  of  the  four  winds,  North,  South,  East,  and 

West; 

Portals  that  lead  to  an  enchanted  land 
Of  cities,  forests,  fields  of  living  gold, 
Vast  prairies,  lordly  summits  touched  with  snow, 
Majestic  rivers  sweeping  proudly  past 
The  Arab's  date-palm  and  the  Norseman's  pine  — 
A  realm  wherein  are  fruits  of  every  zone, 
Airs  of  all  climes,  for  lo !  throughout  the  year 
The  red  rose  blossoms  somewhere  —  a  rich  land, 
A  later  Eden  planted  in  the  wilds, 
With  not  an  inch  of  earth  within  its  bound 
But  if  a  slave's  foot  press  it  sets  him  free. 
Here,  it  is  written,  Toil  shall  have  its  wage, 
And  Honor  honor,  and  the  humblest  man 


276  UNGUARDED  GATES 

Stand  level  with  the  highest  in  the  law. 
Of  such  a  land  have  men  in  dungeons  dreamed, 
And  with  the  vision  brightening  in  their  eyes 
Gone  smiling  to  the  fagot  and  the  sword. 

Wide  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates, 
And  through  them  presses  a  wild  motley  throng  — 
Men  from  the  Volga  and  the  Tartar  steppes, 
Featureless  figures  of  the  Hoang-Ho, 
Malayan,  Scythian,  Teuton,  Kelt,  and  Slav, 
Flying  the  Old  World's  poverty  and  scorn ; 
These  bringing  with  them  unknown  gods  and  rites, 
Those,  tiger  passions,  here  to  stretch  their  claws. 
In  street  and  alley  what  strange  tongues  are  loud, 
Accents  of  menace  alien  to  our  air, 
Voices  that  once  the  Tower  of  Babel  knew ! 

O  Liberty,  white  Goddess  !  is  it  well 
To  leave  the  gates  unguarded  ?     On  thy  breast 
Fold  Sorrow's  children,  soothe  the  hurts  of  fate, 
Lift  the  down-trodden,  but  with  hand  of  steel 
Stay  those  who  to  thy  sacred  portals  come 
To  waste  the  gifts  of  freedom.     Have  a  care 
Lest  from  thy  brow  the  clustered  stars  be  torn 
And  trampled  in  the  dust.     For  so  of  old 
The  thronging  Goth  and  Vandal  trampled  Rome, 
And  where  the  temples  of  the  Caesars  stood 
The  lean  wolf  unmolested  made  her  lair. 


IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  277 


IN   WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 


"  The  Southern  Transept,  hardly  known  by  any  other  name  but  Poets' 
Corner."  —  DEAN  STANLEY. 


TREAD  softly  here  ;  the  sacredest  of  tombs 

Are  those  that  hold  your  Poets.     Kings  and  queens 

Are  facile  accidents  of  Time  and  Chance. 

Chance  sets  them  on  the  heights,  they  climb  not 

there  ! 

But  he  who  from  the  darkling  mass  of  men 
Is  on  the  wing  of  heavenly  thought  upborne 
To  finer  ether,  and  becomes  a  voice 
For  all  the  voiceless,  God  anointed  him  : 
His  name  shall  be  a  star,  his  grave  a  shrine. 

Tread  softly  here,  in  silent  reverence  tread. 
Beneath  those  marble  cenotaphs  and  urns 
Lies  richer  dust  than  ever  nature  hid 
Packed  in  the  mountain's  adamantine  heart, 
Or  slyly  wrapped  in  unsuspected  sand  — 
The  dross  men  toil  for,  and  oft  stain  the  soul. 
How  vain  and  all  ignoble  seems  that  greed 
To  him  who  stands  in  this  dim  claustral  air 
With  these  most  sacred  ashes  at  his  feet ! 
This  dust  was  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Dryden  this  — 
The  spark  that  once  illumed  it  lingers  still. 
O  ever  hallowed  spot  of  English  earth  ! 
If  the  unleashed  and  happy  spirit  of  man 


278  A  SHADOW  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Have  option  to  revisit  our  dull  globe, 
What  august  Shades  at  midnight  here  convene 
In  the  miraculous  sessions  of  the  moon, 
When  the  great  pulse  of  London  faintly  throbs, 
And  one  by  one  the  constellations  pale  ! 


A   SHADOW  OF   THE   NIGHT 

CLOSE  on  the  edge  of  a  midsummer  dawn 

In  troubled  dreams  I  went  from  land  to  land, 

Each  seven-colored  like  the  rainbow's  arc, 

Regions  where  never  fancy's  foot  had  trod 

Till   then;    yet  all   the    strangeness  seemed  not 

strange, 

At  which  I  wondered,  reasoning  in  my  dream 
With  two-fold  sense,  well  knowing  that  I  slept. 
At  last  I  came  to  this  our  cloud-hung  earth, 
And  somewhere  by  the  seashore  was  a  grave, 
A  woman's   grave,   new-made,   and   heaped   with 

flowers ; 

And  near  it  stood  an  ancient  holy  man 
That  fain  would  comfort  me,  who  sorrowed  not 
For  this  unknown  dead  woman  at  my  feet. 
But  I,  because  his  sacred  office  held 
My  reverence,  listened  ;  and  't  was  thus  he  spake  : 
"  When  next  thou  comest  thou  shalt  find  her  still 
In  all  the  rare  perfection  that  she  was. 


THE  LAST  C/ESAR  279 

Thou  shalt  have  gentle  greeting  of  thy  love  ! 

Her  eyelids  will  have  turned  to  violets, 

Her  bosom  to  white  lilies,  and  her  breath 

To  roses.     What  is  lovely  never  dies, 

But  passes  into  other  loveliness, 

Star-dust,  or  sea-foam,  flower,  or  winged  air. 

If  this  befalls  our  poor  unworthy  flesh, 

Think  thee  what  destiny  awaits  the  soul ! 

What  glorious  vesture  it  shall  wear  at  last ! " 

While  yet  he  spoke,  seashore  and  grave  and  priest, 

Vanished,  and  faintly  from  a  neighboring  spire 

Fell  five  slow  solemn  strokes  upon  my  ear. 

Then  I  awoke  with  a  keen  pain  at  heart, 

A  sense  of  swift  unutterable  loss, 

And  through  the  darkness  reached  my  hand  to  touch 

Her  cheek,  soft  pillowed  on  one  restful  palm  — 

To  be  quite  sure  ! 


THE  LAST  C^SAR 
1851-1870 


Now  there  was  one  who  came  in  later  days 
To  play  at  Emperor :  in  the  dead  of  night 
Stole  crown  and  sceptre,  and  stood  forth  to  light 
In  sudden  purple.     The  dawn's  straggling  rays 


280  THE  LAST  CESAR 

Showed  Paris  fettered,  murmuring  in  amaze, 
With  red  hands  at  her  throat  —  a  piteous  sight. 
Then  the  new  Caesar,  stricken  with  affright 
At  his  own  daring,  shrank  from  public  gaze 

In  the  Elysee,  and  had  lost  the  day 
But  that  around  him  flocked  his  birds  of  prey, 
Sharp-beaked,  voracious,  hungry  for  the  deed. 
'Twixt  hope  and  fear  behold  great  Caesar  hang 
Meanwhile,  methinks,  a  ghostly  laughter  rang 
Through  the  rotunda  of  the  Invalides. 


ii 

What  if  the  boulevards,  at  the  set  of  sun, 
Reddened,  but  not  with  sunset's  kindly  glow  ? 
What  if  from  quai  and  square  the  murmured  woe 
Swept  heavenward,  pleadingly  ?  The  prize  was  won, 
A  kingling  made  and  Liberty  undone. 
No  Emperor,  this,  like  him  a  while  ago, 
But  his  Name's  shadow ;  that  one  struck  the  blow 
Himself,  and  sighted  the  street-sweeping  gun ! 

This  was  a  man  of  tortuous  heart  and  brain, 

So  warped  he  knew  not  his  own  point  of  view  — 

The  master  of  a  dark,  mysterious  smile. 

And  there  he  plotted,  by  the  storied  Seine 

And  in  the  fairy  gardens  of  St.  Cloud, 

The  Sphinx  that  puzzled  Europe,  for  a  while. 


THE  LAST  CESAR  281 

III 

I  see  him  as  men  saw  him  once  —  a  face 

Of  true  Napoleon  pallor ;  round  the  eyes 

The  wrinkled  care ;  moustache  spread  pinion-wise, 

Pointing  his  smile  with  odd  sardonic  grace 

As  wearily  he  turns  him  in  his  place, 

And  bends  before  the  hoarse  Parisian  cries  — 

Then  vanishes,  with  glitter  of  gold-lace 

And  trumpets  blaring  to  the  patient  skies. 

Not  thus  he  vanished  later !     On  his  path 
The  Furies  waited  for  the  hour  and  man, 
Foreknowing  that  they  waited  not  in  vain. 
Then  fell  the  day,  O  day  of  dreadful  wrath ! 
Bow  down  in  shame,  O  crimson-girt  Sedan ! 
Weep,  fair  Alsace !  weep,  loveliest  Lorraine ! 

So  mused  I,  sitting  underneath  the  trees 
In  that  old  garden  of  the  Tuileries, 
Watching  the  dust  of  twilight  sifting  down 
Through  chestnut   boughs   just   touched  with  au- 
tumn's brown  — 

Not  twilight  yet,  but  that  illusive  bloom 
Which  holds  before  the  deep-etched  shadows  come ; 
For  still  the  garden  stood  in  golden  mist, 
Still,  like  a  river  of  molten  amethyst, 
The  Seine  slipped  through  its  spans  of  fretted  stone, 


282  THE  LAST  C^SAR 

And  near  the  grille  that  once  fenced  in  a  throne, 

The  fountains  still  unbraided  to  the  day 

The  unsubstantial  silver  of  their  spray. 

A  spot  to  dream  in,  love  in,  waste  one's  hours ! 

Temples  and  palaces,  and  gilded  towers, 

And  fairy  terraces  !  —  and  yet,  and  yet 

Here  in  her  woe  came  Marie  Antoinette, 

Came  sweet  Corday,  Du  Barry  with  shrill  cry, 

Not  learning  from  her  betters  how  to  die  ! 

Here,  while  the  Nations  watched  with  bated  breath, 

Was  held  the  saturnalia  of  Red  Death  ! 

For  where  that  slim  Egyptian  shaft  uplifts 

Its  point  to  catch  the  dawn's  and  sunset's  drifts 

Of  various  gold,  the  busy  Headsman  stood.  .  .  . 

Place  de  la  Concorde  —  no,  the  Place  of  Blood ! 

And  all  so  peaceful  now !     One  cannot  bring 
Imagination  to  accept  the  thing. 
Lies,  all  of  it !  some  dreamer's  wild  romance  — 
High-hearted,  witty,  laughter-loving  France  ! 
In  whose  brain  was  it  that  the  legend  grew 
Of  Maenads  shrieking  in  this  avenue, 
Of  watch-fires  burning,  Famine  standing  guard, 
Of  long-speared  Uhlans  in  that  palace-yard ! 
What  ruder  sound  this  soft  air  ever  smote 
Than  a  bird's  twitter  or  a  bugle's  note  ? 
What  darker  crimson  ever  splashed  these  walks 
Than  that  of  rose-leaves  dropping  from  the  stalks  ? 


TENNYSON  283 

And  yet  —  what  means  that  charred  and   broken 

wall, 

That  sculptured  marble,  splintered,  like  to  fall, 
Looming  among  the  trees  there?  .  .  .  And  you 

say 

This  happened,  as  it  were,  but  yesterday  ? 
And  here  the  Commune  stretched  a  barricade, 
And  there  the  final  desperate  stand  was  made  ? 
Such  things  have  been  ?     How  all  things  change 

and  fade ! 

How  little  lasts  in  this  brave  world  below ! 
Love  dies ;  hate  cools ;  the  Caesars  come  and  go ; 
Gaunt  Hunger  fattens,  and  the  weak  grow  strong. 
Even  Republics  are  not  here  for  long ! 

Ah,  who  can  tell  what  hour  may  bring  the  doom, 
The  lighted  torch,  the  tocsin's  heavy  boom ! 


TENNYSON 


SHAKESPEARE  and  Milton  —  what  third  blazoned 
name 

Shall  lips  of  after-ages  link  to  these  ? 

His  who,  beside  the  wild  encircling  seas, 
Was  England's  voice,  her  voice  with  one  acclaim, 


284  TENNYSON 

For  threescore  years  ;  whose  word  of  praise  was 

fame, 
Whose  scorn  gave  pause  to  man's  iniquities. 


What  strain  was  his  in  that  Crimean  war  ? 
A  bugle-call  in  battle  ;  a  low  breath, 
Plaintive  and  sweet,  above  the  fields  of  death  ! 
So  year  by  year  the  music  rolled  afar, 
From  Euxine  wastes  to  flowery  Kandahar, 
Bearing  the  laurel  or  the  cypress  wreath. 

in 

Others  shall  have  their  little  space  of  time, 
Their  proper  niche  and  bust,  then  fade  away 
Into  the  darkness,  poets  of  a  day ; 
But  thou,  O  builder  of  enduring  rhyme, 
Thou  shalt  not  pass  !     Thy  fame  in  every  clime 
On  earth  shall   live  where   Saxon  speech  has 
sway. 

IV 

Waft  me  this  verse  across  the  winter  sea, 

Through    light   and   dark,    through    mist   and 

blinding  sleet, 
O  winter  winds,  and  lay  it  at  his  feet ; 


ALEC  YEATON'S  SON  285 

Though  the  poor  gift  betray  my  poverty, 
At  his  feet  lay  it :  it  may  chance  that  he 

Will  find  no  gift,  where  reverence  is,  unmeet. 


ALEC  YEATON'S  SON 

GLOUCESTER,  AUGUST,   1720 

THE  wind  it  wailed,  the  wind  it  moaned, 

And  the  white  caps  flecked  the  sea ; 
"  An'  I  would  to  God,"  the  skipper  groaned, 
"  I  had  not  my  boy  with  me  !  " 

Snug  in  the  stern-sheets,  little  John 
Laughed  as  the  scud  swept  by ; 

But  the  skipper's  sunburnt  cheek  grew  wan 
As  he  watched  the  wicked  sky. 

"  Would  he  were  at  his  mother's  side  ! " 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  were  dim. 

"  Good  Lord  in  heaven,  if  ill  betide, 
What  would  become  of  him  ! 

"  For  me  —  my  muscles  are  as  steel, 

For  me  let  hap  what  may  : 
I  might  make  shift  upon  the  keel 
Until  the  break  o'  day. 


286  ALEC  YEATON'S  SON 

"  But  he,  he  is  so  weak  and  small, 

So  young,  scarce  learned  to  stand  — 
O  pitying  Father  of  us  all, 
I  trust  him  in  Thy  hand ! 

"  For  Thou,  who  markest  from  on  high 

A  sparrow's  fall  —  each  one  !  — 
Surely,  O  Lord,  thou  'It  have  an  eye 
On  Alec  Yeaton's  son  !  " 

Then,  steady,  helm  !  Right  straight  he  sailed 

Towards  the  headland  light : 
The  wind  it  moaned,  the  wind  it  wailed, 

And  black,  black  fell  the  night. 

Then  burst  a  storm  to  make  one  quail 
Though  housed  from  winds  and  waves  — 

They  who  could  tell  about  that  gale 
Must  rise  from  watery  graves  ! 

Sudden  it  came,  as  sudden  went ; 

Ere  half  the  night  was  sped, 
The  winds  were  hushed,  the  waves  were  spent, 

And  the  stars  shone  overhead. 

Now,  as  the  morning  mist  grew  thin, 

The  folk  on  Gloucester  shore 
Saw  a  little  figure  floating  in 

Secure,  on  a  broken  oar  ! 


BATUSCHKA  287 

Up  rose  the  cry,  "  A  wreck !  a  wreck ! 

Pull,  mates,  and  waste  no  breath  !  "  — 
They  knew  it,  though  't  was  but  a  speck 

Upon  the  edge  of  death  ! 

Long  did  they  marvel  in  the  town 

At  God  His  strange  decree, 
That  let  the  stalwart  skipper  drown 

And  the  little  child  go  free ! 


BATUSCHKA 1 

FROM  yonder  gilded  minaret 
Beside  the  steel-blue  Neva  set, 
I  faintly  catch,  from  time  to  time, 
The  sweet,  aerial  midnight  chime  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar  ! " 

Above  the  ravelins  and  the  moats 
Of  the  white  citadel  it  floats  ; 
And  men  in  dungeons  far  beneath 
Listen,  and  pray,  and  gnash  their  teeth  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar !  " 

1  "  Little  Father,"  or  "  Dear  Little  Father,"  a  term  of  en- 
dearment applied  to  the  Tsar  in  Russian  folk-song. 


288     MONODY  ON  WENDELL  PHILLIPS 

The  soft  reiterations  sweep 
Across  the  horror  of  their  sleep, 
As  if  some  demon  in  his  glee 
Were  mocking  at  their  misery  — - 
"  God  save  the  Tsar !  " 

In  his  Red  Palace  over  there, 
Wakeful,  he  needs  must  hear  the  prayer. 
How  can  it  drown  the  broken  cries 
Wrung  from  his  children's  agonies  ?  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  " 

Father  they  called  him  from  of  old  — 
Batuschka !  .  .  .  How  his  heart  is  cold ! 
Wait  till  a  million  scourged  men . 
Rise  in  their  awful  might,  and  then  — 
God  save  the  Tsar  ! 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WENDELL 
PHILLIPS 


ONE  by  one  they  go 
Into  the  unknown  dark  — 
Starlit  brows  of  the  brave, 
Voices  that  drew  men's  souls. 


MONODY  ON  WENDELL  PHILLIPS      289 

Rich  is  the  land,  O  Death ! 
Can  give  you  dead  like  our  dead !  — 
Such  as  he  from  whose  hand 
The  magic  web  of  romance 
Slipped,  and  the  art  was  lost ! 
Such  as  he  who  erewhile  — 
The  last  of  the  Titan  brood  — 
With  his  thunder  the  Senate  shook ; 
Or  he  who,  beside  the  Charles, 
Untouched  of  envy  or  hate, 
Tranced  the  world  with  his  song ; 
Or  that  other,  that  gray-eyed  seer 
Who  in  pastoral  Concord  ways 
With  Plato  and  Hafiz  walked. 


ii 

Not  of  these  was  the  man 

Whose  wraith,  through  the  mists  of  night, 

Through  the  shuddering  wintry  stars, 

Has  passed  to  eternal  morn. 

Fit  were  the  moan  of  the  sea 

And  the  clashing  of  cloud  on  cloud 

For  the  passing  of  that  soul ! 

Ever  he  faced  the  storm  ! 

No  weaver  of  rare  romance, 

No  patient  framer  of  laws, 

No  maker  of  wondrous  rhyme, 

No  bookman  wrapped  in  his  dream. 


290      MONODY  -ON  WENDELL  PHILLIPS 

His  was  the  voice  that  rang 
In  the  fight  like  a  bugle-call, 
And  yet  could  be  tender  and  low 
As  when,  on  a  night  in  June, 
The  hushed  wind  sobs  in  the  pines. 
His  was  the  eye  that  flashed 
With  a  sabre's  azure  gleam, 
Pointing  to  heights  unwon  ! 


in 

Not  for  him  were  these  days 

Of  clerkly  and  sluggish  calm  — 

To  the  petrel  the  swooping  gale  ! 

Austere  he  seemed,  but  the  hearts 

Of  all  men  beat  in  his  breast ; 

No  fetter  but  galled  his  wrist, 

No  wrong  that  was  not  his  own. 

What  if  those  eloquent  lips 

Curled  with  the  old-time  scorn  ? 

What  if  in  needless  hours 

His  quick  hand  closed  on  the  hilt  ? 

'T  was  the  smoke  from  the  well-won  fields 

That  clouded  the  veteran's  eyes. 

A  fighter  this  to  the  end. 


Ah,  if  in  coming  times 
Some  giant  evil  arise, 


TWO  MOODS  291 

And  Honor  falter  and  pale, 

His  were  a  name  to  conjure  with ! 

God  send  his  like  again  ! 


TWO   MOODS 


BETWEEN  the  budding  and  the  falling  leaf 

Stretch  happy  skies ; 

With  colors  and  sweet  cries 

Of  mating  birds  in  uplands  and  in  glades 

The  world  is  rife. 

Then  on  a  sudden  all  the  music  dies, 

The  color  fades. 

How  fugitive  and  brief 

Is  mortal  life 

Between  the  budding  and  the  falling  leaf ! 

O  short-breathed  music,  dying  on  the  tongue 
Ere  half  the  mystic  canticle  be  sung  ! 
O  harp  of  life,  so  speedily  unstrung  ! 
Who,  if  't  were  his  to  choose,  would  know  again 
The  bitter  sweetness  of  the  lost  refrain, 
Its  rapture,  and  its  pain  ? 


292  THE  SHIPMAN'S  TALE 

II 

Though  I  be  shut  in  darkness,  and  become    • 
Insentient  dust  blown  idly  here  and  there, 
I  count  oblivion  a  scant  price  to  pay 
For  having  once  had  held  against  my  lip 
Life's  brimming  cup  of  hydromel  and  rue  — 
For  having  once  known  woman's  holy  love 
And  a  child's  kiss,  and  for  a  little  space 
Been  boon  companion  to  the  Day  and  Night, 
Fed  on  the  odors  of  the  summer  dawn, 
And  folded  in  the  beauty  of  the  stars. 
Dear  Lord,  though  I  be  changed  to  senseless  clay, 
And  serve  the  potter  as  he  turns  his  wheel, 
I  thank  Thee  for  the  gracious  gift  of  tears ! 


THE   SHIPMAN'S   TALE 

LISTEN,  my  masters !     I  speak  naught  but  truth. 
From  dawn  to  dawn  they  drifted  on  and  on, 
Not  knowing  whither  nor  to  what  dark  end. 
Now  the  North  froze   them,  now  the  hot   South 

scorched. 

Some  called  to  God,  and  found  great  comfort  so ; 
Some  gnashed  their  teeth  with  curses,   and  some 

laughed 
An  empty  laughter,  seeing  they  yet  lived, 


THE  SHIPMAN'S  TALE  293 

So  sweet  was  breath  between  their  foolish  lips. 
Day  after  day  the  same  relentless  sun, 
Night  after  night  the  same  unpitying  stars. 
At  intervals  fierce  lightnings  tore  the  clouds, 
Showing  vast  hollow  spaces,  and  the  sleet 
Hissed,  and  the  torrents  of  the  sky  were  loosed. 
From  time  to  time  a  hand  relaxed  its  grip, 
And  some  pale  wretch  slid  down  into  the  dark 
With  stifled  moan,  and  transient  horror  seized 
The  rest  who  waited,  knowing  what  must  be. 
At   every   turn    strange   shapes    reached   up   and 

clutched 

The  whirling  wreck,  held  on  awhile,  and  then 
Slipped  back  into  that  blackness  whence  they  came. 
Ah,  hapless  folk,  to  be  so  tossed  and  torn, 
So  racked  by  hunger,  fever,  fire,  and  wave, 
And  swept  at  last  into  the  nameless  void  — 
Frail   girls,  strong  men,  and   mothers   with   their 

babes ! 

And  was  none  saved  ? 

My  masters,  not  a  soul ! 

O  shipman,  woful,  woful  is  thy  tale ! 

Our  hearts  are  heavy  and  our  eyes  are  dimmed. 

What  ship  is  this  that  suffered  such  ill  fate  ? 

What  ship,  my  masters?      Know  ye  not?  —  The 
World  ! 


294  BROKEN  MUSIC 

BROKEN   MUSIC 

A  note 
All  out  of  tune  in  this  world's  instrument. 

AMY  LEVY. 

I  KNOW  not  in  what  fashion  she  was  made, 

Nor  what  her  voice  was,  when  she  used  to  speak, 
Nor  if  the  silken  lashes  threw  a  shade 
On  wan  or  rosy  cheek. 

I  picture  her  with  sorrowful  vague  eyes 

Illumed  with  such  strange  gleams  of  inner  light 
As  linger  in  the  drift  of  London  skies 
Ere  twilight  turns  to  night. 

I  know  not ;  I  conjecture.     'T  was  a  girl 

That  with  her  own  most  gentle  desperate  hand 
From  out  God's  mystic  setting  plucked  life's  pearl  — 
'Tis  hard  to  understand. 

So  precious  life  is  !     Even  to  the  old 

The  hours  are  as  a  miser's  coins,  and  she  — 
Within  her  hands  lay  youth's  unminted  gold 
And  all  felicity. 

The  winged  impetuous  spirit,  the  white  flame 

That  was  her  soul  once,  whither  has  it  flown  ? 
Above  her  brow  gray  lichens  blot  her  name 
Upon  the  carven  stone. 


THE  SAILING  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT     295 

This  is  her  Book  of  Verses  —  wren-like  notes, 

Shy  franknesses,  blind  gropings,  haunting  fears  j 
At  times  across  the  chords  abruptly  floats 
A  mist  of  passionate  tears. 

A  fragile  lyre  too  tensely  keyed  and  strung, 

A  broken  music,  weirdly  incomplete  : 
Here  a  proud  mind,  self-baffled  and  self-stung, 
Lies  coiled  in  dark  defeat. 


THE  SAILING  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT 

ON    BOARD   THE   S.  S.   CEPHALONIA 
April  26,  1886 


O  WIND  and  Wave,  be  kind  to  him  ! 
So,  Wave  and  Wind,  we  give  thee  thanks ! 
O  Fog,  that  from  Newfoundland  Banks 
Makest  the  blue  bright  ocean  dim, 
Delay  him  not !     And  ye  who  snare 
The  wayworn  shipman  with  your  song, 
Go  pipe  your  ditties  otherwhere 
While  this  brave  vessel  ploughs  along ! 
If  still  to  lure  him  hold  your  thought, 
O  phantoms  of  the  watery  zone, 
Be  wary,  lest  yourselves  get  caught 
With  music  sweeter  than  your  own ! 


296    THE  SAILING  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT 
II 

Yet,  soft  sea  spirits,  be  not  mute  ; 
Murmur  about  the  prow,  and  make 
Melodious  the  west  wind's  lute. 
For  him  may  radiant  mornings  break 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
And  golden  noons  above  him  bend, 
And  kindly  constellations  keep 
Bright  vigils  to  his  journey's  end ! 

in 

Take  him,  green  Erin,  to  thy  breast ! 
Keep  him,  dark  London  —  for  a  while  ! 
In  him  we  send  thee  of  our  best, 
Our  wisest  word,  our  blithest  smile  — 
Our  epigram,  alert  and  pat, 
That  kills  with  joy  the  folly  hit  — 
Our  Yankee  Tsar,  our  Autocrat 
Of  all  the  happy  realms  of  wit ! 
Take  him  and  keep  him  —  but  forbear 
To  keep  him  more  than  half  a  year.  .  .  . 
His  presence  will  be  sunshine  there, 
His  absence  will  be  shadow  here ! 

October  7,  1894 

"  His  absence  will  be  shadow  here  " — 
A  deeper  shadow  than  I  meant 


AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  MINOR  POET  297 

Has  fallen  on  the  waning  year 

And  with  my  lightsome  verses  blent. 

Another  voyage  was  to  be  !  — 

The  ship  that  bears  him  now  from  shore, 

To  plough  an  unknown,  chartless  sea, 

Shall  bring  him  back  to  us  no  more ! 


AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  MINOR  POET 

One  of  the  Bearers  soliloquises : 

.  .  .  ROOM  in  your  heart  for  him,  O  Mother  Earth, 
Who  loved  each  flower  and  leaf  that  made  you 

fair, 

And  sang  your  praise  in  verses  manifold 
And  delicate,  with  here  and  there  a  line 
From  end  to  end  in  blossom  like  a  bough 
The  May  breathes  on,  so  rich  it  was.    Some  thought 
The  workmanship  more  costly  than  the  thing 
Moulded  or  carved,  as  in  those  ornaments 
Found  at  Mycenae.     And  yet  Nature's  self 
Works  in  this  wise ;  upon  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  what  small  note  she  lends  the  woodland  thrush, 
Lavishing  endless  patience.     He  was  born 
Artist,  not  artisan,  which  some  few  saw 
And  many  dreamed  not.     As  he  wrote  no  odes 
When  Croesus  wedded  or  Maecenas  died, 
And  gave  no  breath  to  civic  feasts  and  shows, 


298  AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  MINOR  POET 

He  missed  the  glare  that  gilds  more  facile  men  — 

A  twilight  poet,  groping  quite  alone, 

Belated,  in  a  sphere  where  every  nest 

Is  emptied  of  its  music  and  its  wings. 

Not  great  his  gift ;  yet  we  can  poorly  spare 

Even  his  slight  perfection  in  an  age 

Of  limping  triolets  and  tame  rondeaux. 

He  had  at  least  ideals,  though  unreached, 

And  heard,  far  off,  immortal  harmonies, 

Such  as  fall  coldly  on  our  ear  to-day. 

The  mighty  Zolaistic  Movement  now 

Engrosses  us  —  a  miasmatic  breath 

Blown  from  the  slums.     We  paint  life  as  it  is, 

The  hideous  side  of  it,  with  careful  pains, 

Making  a  god  of  the  dull  Commonplace. 

For  have  we  not  the  old  gods  overthrown 

And  set  up  strangest  idols  ?     We  would  clip 

Imagination's  wing  and  kill  delight, 

Our  sole  art  being  to  leave  nothing  out 

That  renders  art  offensive.     Not  for  us 

Madonnas  leaning  from  their  starry  thrones 

Ineffable,  nor  any  heaven-wrought  dream 

Of  sculptor  or  of  poet ;  we  prefer 

Such  nightmare  visions  as  in  morbid  brains 

Take  form  and  substance,  thoughts  that  taint  the 

air 

And  make  all  life  unlovely.     Will  it  last  ? 
Beauty  alone  endures  from  age  to  age, 


AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  MINOR  POET  299 

From  age  to  age  endures,  handmaid  of  God. 

Poets  who  walk  with  her  on  earth  go  hence 

Bearing  a  talisman.     You  bury  one, 

With  his  hushed  music,  in  some  Potter's  Field ; 

The  snows  and  rains  blot  out  his  very  name, 

As  he  from  life  seems  blotted  :  through  Time's  glass 

Slip  the  invisible  and  silent  sands 

That  mark  the  century,  then  falls  a  day 

The  world  is  suddenly  conscious  of  a  flower, 

Imperishable,  ever  to  be  prized, 

Sprung  from  the  mould  of  a  forgotten  grave. 

'T  is  said  the  seeds  wrapped  up  among  the  balms 

And  hieroglyphics  of  Egyptian  kings 

Hold  strange  vitality,  and,  planted,  grow 

After  the  lapse  of  thrice  a  thousand  years. 

Some  day,  perchance,  some  unregarded  note 

Of  this  dead  Singer  —  some  sweet  minor  chord 

That  failed  to  lure  our  more  accustomed  ear  — 

Shall  wake  to  life,  like  those  long  buried  seeds, 

And  witch  the  fancy  of  an  unborn  age. 

Meanwhile  he  sleeps,  with  scantiest  laurel  won 

And  little  of  our  Nineteenth  Century  gold. 

So,  take  him,  Earth,  and  this  his  mortal  part, 

With  that  shrewd  alchemy  thou  hast,  transmute 

To  flower  and  leaf  in  thine  unending  Springs  ! 


300          PORTRAIT  OF  EDWIN  BOOTH 


SARGENT'S   PORTRAIT   OF   EDWIN 
BOOTH   AT   "THE   PLAYERS" 

1891 

THAT  face  which  no  man  ever  saw 
And  from  his  memory  banished  quite, 
With  eyes  in  which  are  Hamlet's  awe 
And  Cardinal  Richelieu's  subtle  light 
Looks  from  this  frame.     A  master's  hand 
Has  set  the  master-player  here, 
In  the  fair  temple  l  that  he  planned 
Not  for  himself.     To  us  most  dear 
This  image  of  him  !     "  It  was  thus 
He  looked  ;  such  pallor  touched  his  cheek ; 
With  that  same  grace  he  greeted  us  — 
Nay,  't  is  the  man,  could  it  but  speak !  " 
Sad  words  that  shall  be  said  some  day  — 
Far  fall  the  day  !     O  cruel  Time, 
Whose  breath  sweeps  mortal  things  away, 
Spare  long  this  image  of  his  prime, 
That  others  standing  in  the  place 
Where,  save  as  ghosts,  we  come  no  more, 
May  know  what  sweet  majestic  face 
The  gentle  Prince  of  Players  wore  ! 

1  The  club-house  in  Gramercy  Park,  New  York,  was  the 
gift  of  Mr.  Booth  to  the  association  founded  by  him  and 
named  "  The  Players." 


WHEN  FROM  THE  TENSE  CHORDS    301 


"WHEN   FROM   THE   TENSE   CHORDS 
OF   THAT   MIGHTY   LYRE" 

JANUARY,  1892 


WHEN  from  the  tense  chords  of  that  mighty  lyre 
The  Master's  hand,  relaxing,  falls  away, 

And  those  rich  strings  are  silent  for  all  time, 
Then  shall  Love  pine,  and  Passion  lack  her  fire, 
And  Faith  seem  voiceless.     Man  to  man  shall 

say, 
"  Dead  is  the  last  of  England's  lords  of  rhyme." 


ii 

Yet  —  stay  !  there  's  one,  a  later  laurelled  brow, 
With  purple  blood  of  poets  in  his  veins  ; 

Him  has  the  Muse  claimed  ;  him  might  Mar- 
lowe own ; 
Greek   Sappho's  son !  —  men's   praises   seek  him 

now. 

Happy  the    realm   where   one    such   voice   re- 
mains ! 

His   the   dropped  wreath   and   the  unenvied 
throne. 


302    WHEN  FROM  THE  TENSE  CHORDS 

III 

The  wreath  the  world  gives,  not  the  mimic  wreath 
That  chance  might  make  the  gift  of  king  or  queen. 

O  finder  of  undreamed-of  harmonies  ! 
Since  Shelley's  lips  were  hushed  by  cruel  death, 
What  lyric  voice  so  sweet  as  this  has  been 
Blown  to  us  on  the  winds  from  over  seas  ? 


PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 


SCENE  :  St.  Petersburg.  Period :  the  present  time.  A  ballroom 
in  the  winter  palace  of  the  Prince .  The  ladies  in  charac- 
ter costumes  and  masks.  The  gentlemen  in  official  dress  and  un- 
masked, with  the  exception  of  six  tall  figures  in  scarlet  kaftans, 
who  are  treated  with  marked  distinction  as  they  move  here  and 
there  among  the  promenaders.  Quadrille  music  throughout  the 
dialogue. 

COUNT  SERGIUS  PAVLOVICH  PANSHINE,  who  has  just  arrived, 
is  standing  anxiously  in  the  doorway  of  an  antechamber  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  a  lady  in  the  costume  of  a  maid  of  honor  in  the 
time  of  Catharine  II.  The  lady  presently  disengages  herself  from 
the  crowd,  and  passes  near  COUNT  PANSHINE,  who  impulsively 
takes  her  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  across  the  threshold  of  the 
inner  apartment,  which  is  unoccupied. 

HE 

Pauline ! 

SHE 
You  knew  me  ? 

HE 

How  could  I  have  failed  ? 
A  mask  may  hide  your  features,  not  your  soul. 
303 


3o6  PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 

O  irony  !  —  the  hand  of  this  poor  girl. 

He  stayed  me  at  the  bottom  of  a  stair, 

And  said,  We  have  the  pearl  of  'pearls  for  you , 

Such  as  from  out  the  sea  was  never  plucked 

By  Indian  diver,  for  a  Sultan's  crown. 

Your  joy 's  decreed,  and  stabbed  me  with  a  smile. 

SHE 
And  she  —  she  loves  you  ? 

HE 

I  much  question  that. 

Likes  me,  perhaps.     What  matters  it?  —  her  love  ! 
The  guardian,  Sidor  Yurievich,  consents, 
And    she    consents.     Love   weighs    not    in   such 

scales  — 

A  mere  caprice,  a  young  girl's  springtide  dream. 
Sick  of  her  ear-rings,  weary  of  her  mare, 
She  '11  have  a  lover,  something  ready-made, 
Or  improvised  between  two  cups  of  tea  — 
A  lover  by  imperial  ukase ! 
Fate  said  her  word  —  I  chanced  to  be  the  man  ! 
If  that  grenade  the  crazy  student  threw 
Had  not  spared  me,  as  well  as  spared  the  Tsar, 
All  this  would  not  have  happened.     I  'd  have  been 
A  hero,  but  quite  safe  from  her  romance. 
She  takes  me  for  a  hero  —  think  of  that ! 
Now  by  our  holy  Lady  of  Kazan, 
When  I  have  finished  pitying  myself, 
I'll  pity  her. 


PAULINE  PAVLOVNA  307 

SHE 

Oh  no  ;  begin  with  her ; 
She  needs  it  most. 


HE 

At  her  door  lies  the  blame, 
Whatever  falls.     She,  with  a  single  word, 
With  half  a  tear,  had  stopped  it  at  the  first, 
This  cruel  juggling  with  poor  human  hearts. 

SHE 
The  Tsar  commanded  it  —  you  said  the  Tsar. 

HE 

The  Tsar  does  what  she  wishes  —  God  knows  why. 

Were  she  his  mistress,  now !  but  there  's  no  snow 

Whiter  within  the  bosom  of  a  cloud, 

Nor  colder  either.     She  is  very  haughty, 

For  all  her  fragile  air  of  gentleness ; 

With  something  vital  in  her,  like  those  flowers 

That  on  our  desolate  steppes  outlast  the  year. 

Resembles  you  in  some  things.     It  was  that 

First  made  us  friends.     I  do  her  justice,  mark. 

For  we  were  friends  in  that  smooth  surface  way 

We  Russians  have  imported  out  of  France  — 

Forgetting  Alma  and  Sevastopol. 

Alas !  from  what  a  blue  and  tranquil  heaven 

This  bolt  fell  on  me !     After  these  two  years, 

My  suit  with  Alexandrovitch  at  end, 


308  PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 

The  old  wrong  righted,  the  estates  restored, 
And  my  promotion,  with  the  ink  not  dry ! 
Those  fairies  which  neglected  me  at  birth 
Seemed  now  to  lavish  all  good  gifts  on  me  — 
Gold  roubles,  office,  sudden  dearest  friends. 
The  whole  world  smiled  ;  then,  as  I  stooped  to  taste 
The  sweetest  cup,  freak  dashed  it  from  my  lip. 
This  very  night  —  just  think,  this  very  night  — 
I  planned  to  come  and  beg  of  you  the  alms 
I  dared  not  ask  for  in  my  poverty. 
I  thought  me  poor  then.     How  stripped  am  I  now  ! 
There  's  not  a  ragged  mendicant  one  meets 
Along  the  Nevski  Prospekt  but  has  leave 
To  tell  his  love,  and  I  have  not  that  right ! 
Pauline  Pavlovna,  why  do  you  stand  there 
Stark  as  a  statue,  with  no  word  to  say  ? 

SHE 

Because  this  thing  has  frozen  up  my  heart. 

I  think  that  there  is  something  killed  in  me, 

A  dream  that  would  have  mocked  all  other  bliss. 

What  shall  I  say  ?     What  would  you  have  me  say  ? 

HE 

If  it  be  possible,  the  word  of  words  ! 

SHE,  very  slowly 

Well,  then  —  I  love  you.     I  may  tell  you  so 
This  once,  .  .  .  and  then  for  ever  hold  my  peace. 


PAULINE  PAVLOVNA  309 

We  cannot  longer  stay  here  unobserved. 
No  —  do  not  touch  me  !  but  stand  farther  off, 
And  seem  to  laugh,  as  if  we  talked  in  jest, 
Should  we  be  watched.     Now  turn  your  face  away. 
I  love  you. 

HE 

With  such  music  in  my  ears 
I  would  death  found  me.     It  were  sweet  to  die 
Listening !     You  love  me  —  prove  it. 

SHE 

Prove  it  —  how  ? 
I  prove  it  saying  it.     How  else  ? 

HE 

Pauline, 
I   have   three   things   to  choose  from  ;  you   shall 

choose : 

This  marriage,  or  Siberia,  or  France. 
The  first  means  hell ;  the  second,  purgatory ; 
The   third  —  with   you  —  were   nothing    less   than 

heaven ! 

SHE,  starting 

How  dared  you  even  dream  it ! 

HE 

I  was  mad. 


310  PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 

»  , 

This  business  has  touched  me  in  the  brain. 
Have  patience !  the  calamity  is  new.  [Pauses 

There  is  a  fourth  way ;  but  that  gate  is  shut 
To  brave  men  who  hold  life  a  thing  of  God. 

SHE 
Yourself  spoke  there ;  the  rest  was  not  of  you. 

HE 

Oh,  lift  me  to  your  level !     Where  you  move 
The  air  is  temperate,  and  no  pulses  beat. 
What 's  to  be  done  ? 

SHE 

I  lack  invention  —  stay, 
Perhaps  the  Emperor  — 

HE 

Not  a  shred  of  hope ! 

His  mind  is  set  on  this  with  that  insistence 
Which  seems  to  seize  on  all  match-making  folk. 
The  fancy  bites  them,  and  they  straight  go  mad. 

SHE 

Your  father's  friend,  the  Metropolitan  — 
A  word  from  him  .  .  . 

HE 

Alas,  he  too  is  bitten ! 


PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 


Gray-haired,  gray-hearted,  worldly  wise,  he  sees 
This  marriage  makes  me  the  Tsar's  protege, 
And  opens  every  door  to  preference. 


Then  let  him  be.     There  surely  is  some  way 
Out  of  the  labyrinth,  could  we  but  find  it. 
Nastasia ! 

HE 
What !  beg  life  of  her  ?     Not  I. 

SHE 

Beg  love.     She  is  a  woman,  young,  perhaps, 
Untouched  as  yet  of  this  too  poisonous  air. 
Were  she  told  all,  would  she  not  pity  us  ? 
For  if  she  love  you,  as  I  think  she  must, 
Would  not  some  generous  impulse  stir  in  her, 
Some  latent,  unsuspected  spark  illume  ? 
How  love  thrills  even  commonest  girl-clay, 
Ennobling  it  an  instant,  if  no  more  ! 
You  said  that  she  is  proud  ;  then  touch  her  pride, 
And  turn  her  into  marble  with  the  touch. 
But  yet  the  gentler  passion  is  the  stronger. 
Go  to  her,  tell  her,  in  some  tenderest  phrase 
That  will  not  hurt  too  much  —  ah,  but 't  will  hurt !  — 
Just  how  your  happiness  lies  in  her  hand 
To  make  or  mar  for  all  time ;  hint,  not  say, 
Your  heart  is  gone  from  you,  and  you  may  find  — 


312  PAULINE  PAVLOVNA 

HE 

A  casemate  in  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul 
For,  say,  a  month  ;  then  some  Siberian  town. 
Not  this  way  lies  escape.     At  my  first  word 
That  sluggish  Tartar  blood  would  turn  to  fire 
In  every  vein. 

SHE 

How  blindly  you  read  her, 
Or  any  woman  !     Yes,  I  know.     I  grant 
How  small  we  often  seem  in  our  small  world 
Of  trivial  cares  and  narrow  precedents  — 
Lacking  that  wide  horizon  stretched  for  men  — 
Capricious,  spiteful,  frightened  at  a  mouse ; 
But  when  it  comes  to  suffering  mortal  pangs, 
The  weakest  of  us  measures  pulse  with  you. 

HE 

Yes,  you,  not  she.     If  she  were  at  your  height ! 
But  there  's  no  martyr  wrapped  in  her  rose  flesh. 
There  should  have  been  ;  for  Nature  gave  you  both 
The  self-same  purple  for  your  eyes  and  hair, 
The  self-same  Southern  music  to  your  lips, 
Fashioned  you  both,  as  't  were,  in  the  same  mould, 
Yet  failed  to  put  the  soul  in  one  of  you  ! 
I  know  her  wilful  —  her  light  head  quite  turned 
In  this  court  atmosphere  of  flatteries ; 
A  Moscow  beauty,  petted  and  spoiled  there, 
And  since  spoiled  here  ;  as  soft  as  swan's-down  now, 


PAULINE  PAVLOVNA  3'3 

With  words  like  honey  melting  from  the  comb, 
But  being  crossed,  vindictive,  cruel,  cold. 
I  fancy  her,  between  two  languid  smiles, 
Saying,  "  Poor  fellow,  in  the  Nertchinsk  mines  ! " 
I  know  her  pitiless. 

SHE 

You  know  her  not. 

Count  Sergius  Pavlovich,  you  said  no  mask 
Could  hide  the  soul,  yet  how  you  have  mistaken 
The  soul  these  two  months  —  and  the  face  to-night ! 

[Removes  her  mask 
HE 

You !  —  it  was  you  ! 

SHE 

Count  Sergius  Pavlovich, 
Go  find  Pauline  Pavlovna — she  is  here  — 
And  tell  her  that  the  Tsar  has  set  you  free. 

[She  goes  out  hurriedly,  replacing  her  mask 


JUDITH   AND    HOLOFERNES 


BOOK   I 
JUDITH   IN   THE   TOWER 

UNHERALDED,  like  some  tornado  loosed 
Out  of  the  brooding  hills,  it  came  to  pass 
That  Holofernes,  the  Assyrian, 
With  horse  and  foot  a  mighty  multitude, 
Crossed  the  Euphrates,  ravaging  the  land 
To  Esdraelon,  and  then  hawk-like  swooped 
On  Bethulia  :  there  his  trenches  drew, 
There  his  grim  engines  of  destruction  set 
And  stormed  the  place ;  and  gave  them  little  rest 
Within,  till  sad  their  plight  was  ;  for  at  last 
The  wells  ran  low,  the  stores  of  barley  failed, 
And  famine  crept  on  them.     A  wheaten  loaf 
Was  put  in  this  scale  and  the  gold  in  that, 
So  scarce  was  bread.     Now  were  the  city  streets 
Grown  loud  with  lamentation,  women's  moans 
And  cries  of  children ;  and  one  night  there  came 
The  plague,  with  breath  as  hot  as  the  simoom 
That  blows  the  desert  sand  to  flakes  of  fire. 
3*3 


3i6  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERXES 

Yet  Holofernes  could  not  batter  down 
The  gates  of  bronze,  nor  decent  entrance  make 
With  beam  or  catapult  in  those  tough  walls, 
Nor  with  his  lighted  arrows  fire  the  roofs. 
Gnawing  his  lip,  among  the  tents  he  strode  — 
Woe  to  the  slave  that  stumbled  in  his  path  I  — 
And  cursed  the  doting  gods,  who  gave  no  aid, 
But  slumbered  somewhere  in  their  house  of  cloud. 
Still  wan-cheeked  Famine  and  red-spotted  Pest 
Did  their  fell  work ;  these  twain  were  his  allies. 
So  he  withdrew  his  men  a  little  way 
Into  the  hill-land,  where  good  water  was, 
And  shade  of  trees  that  spread  their  forked  boughs 
Like  a  stag's  antlers.     There  he  pitched  his  tents 
On  the  steep  slope,  and  counted  the  slow  hours, 
Teaching  his  heart  such  patience  as  he  knew. 

At  midnight,  in  that  second  month  of  siege, 
Judith  had  climbed  into  a  mouldered  tower 
That  looked  out  on  the  vile  Assyrian  camp 
Stretched  on  the  slopes  beyond  an  open  plain. 
Here  did  she  come,  of  late,  to  think  and  pray. 
Below  her,  where  the  spiral  vapors  rose, 
The  army  like  a  witch's  caldron  seethed. 
At  times  she  heard  the  camels'  gurgling  moan, 
The  murmur  of  men's  tongues,  and  clank  of  arms 
Muffled  by  distance.    Through  the  tree-stems  shone 
The  scattered  watchfires,  lurid  fiends  of  night 


'JUDITH. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  317 

That  with  red  hands  reached  up  and  clutched  the 

dark; 

And  now  and  then  as  some  mailed  warrior  strode 
Into  the  light,  she  saw  his  armor  gleam. 
The  city,  with  its  pestilential  breath, 
A  hive  of  woes,  lay  close  beneath  her  feet ; 
Above  her  leaned  the  sleepless  Pleiades. 

That  night  she  held  long  vigil  in  the  tower, 
Merari's  daughter,  dead  Manasseh's  wife, 
Who,  since  the  barley  harvest  when  he  died, 
Had  dwelt  three  years  a  widow  in  her  house, 
And  looked  on  no  man :  where  Manasseh  slept 
In  his  strait  sepulchre,  there  slept  her  heart. 
Yet  dear  to  her,  and  for  his  memory  dear, 
Was  Israel,  the  chosen  people,  now 
How  shorn  of  glory !     Hither  had  she  come 
To  pray  in  the  still  starlight,  far  from  those 
Who  watched  or  wept  in  the  sad  world  below , 
And  in  the  midnight,  in  the  tower  alone, 
She  knelt  and  prayed  as  one  that  doubted  not; 

"  Oh,  are  we  not  Thy  children  who  of  old 
Trod  the  Chaldean  idols  in  the  dust, 
And  built  our  altars  only  unto  Thee  ? 

"  Didst  Thou  not  lead  us  into  Canaan 
For  love  of  us,  because  we  spurned  the  gods  ? 
Didst  Thou  not  shield  us  that  we  worshipped  Tries  ? 


3i8  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

"And  when  a  famine  covered  all  the  land, 
And  drove  us  into  Egypt,  where  the  King 
Did  persecute  Thy  chosen  to  the  death  — 

"  Didst  Thou  not  smite  the  swart  Egyptians  then, 
And  guide  us  through  the  bowels  of  the  deep 
That  swallowed  up  their  horsemen  and  their  King  ? 

"  For  saw  we  not,  as  in  a  wondrous  dream, 
The  up-tossed  javelins,  the  plunging  steeds, 
The  chariots  sinking  in  the  wild  Red  Sea  ? 

"O  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  with  us  in  our  woe, 
And  from  Thy  bosom  Thou  hast  cast  us  forth, 
And  to  Thy  bos.om  taken  us  again  : 

"  For  we  have  built  our  temples  in  the  hills 
By  Sinai,  and  on  Jordan's  sacred  banks, 
And  in  Jerusalem  we  worship  Thee. 

"  O  Lord,  look  down  and  help  us.     Stretch  Thy 

hand 

And  free  Thy  people.     Make  our  faith  as  steel, 
And  draw  us  nearer,  nearer  unto  Thee." 

Then  Judith  loosed  the  hair  about  her  brows, 
About  her  brows  the  long  black  tresses  loosed, 
And  bent  her  head,  and  wept  for  Israel. 
And  while  she  wept,  bowed  like  a  lotus  flower 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  319 

That  leans  to  its  own  shadow  in  the  Nile, 

A  strangest  silence  fell  upon  the  land ; 

Like  to  a  sea-mist  spreading  east  and  west 

It  spread,  and  close  on  this  there  came  a  sound 

Of  snow-soft  plumage  rustling  in  the  dark, 

And  voices  that  such  magic  whisperings  made 

As  the  sea  makes  at  twilight  on  a  strip 

Of  sand  and  pebble.     Slowly  from  her  knees 

Judith  arose,  but  dared  not  lift  her  eyes, 

Awed  with  the  sense  that  now  beside  her  stood 

A  God's  white  Angel,  though  she  saw  him  not, 

While  round  the  tower  a  winged  retinue 

In  the  wind's  eddies  drifted ;  then  the  world 

Crumbled  and  vanished,  and  nought  else  she  knew. 

The  Angel  stooped,  and  from  his  luminous  brow 

And  from  the  branch  of  amaranth  he  bore 

A  gleam  fell  on  her,  touching  eyes  and  lips 

With  light  ineffable,  and  she  became 

Fairer  than  morning  in  Arabia. 

On  cheek  and  brow  and  bosom  lay  such  tint 

As  in  the  golden  process  of  mid-June 

Creeps  up  the  slender  stem  to  dye  the  rose. 

Then  silently  the  Presence  spread  his  vans. 

Like  one  that  from  a  lethargy  awakes 

The  Hebrew  woman  started  :  in  the  tower 

No  winged  thing  was,  save  on  a  crossbeam 

A  twittering  sparrow  ;  from  the  underworld 

Came  sounds  of  pawing  hoof,  and  clink  of  steel ; 

And  where  the  black  horizon  blackest  lay 


320  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

A  moment  gone,  a  thread  of  purple  ran 

That  changed  to  rose,  and  then  to  sudden  gold. 

And  Judith  stood  bewildered,  with  flushed  cheek 
Pressed   to   the   stone-work.     When  she  knelt  to 

pray 

It  was  dead  night,  and  now  't  was  break  of  dawn  j 
Yet  had  not  sleep  upon  her  eyelids  set 
Its  purple  seal.     In  this  strange  interval 
Of  void  or  trance,  or  slumber-mocking  death, 
What  had  befallen  ?     As  a  skein  of  silk, 
Dropped  by  a  weaver  seated  at  his  loom, 
Lies  in  a  tangle,  and  but  knots  the  more, 
And  slips  the  fingers  seeking  for  the  clue : 
So  all  her  thought  lay  tangled  in  her  brain, 
And  what  had  chanced  eluded  memory. 

Now  was  day  risen ;  on  the  green  foothills 
Men  were  in  motion,  and  such  life  as  was 
In  the  sad  city  dragged  itself  to  light. 
Then  Judith  turned,  and  slowly  down  the  stair 
Descended  to  the  court.     Outside  the  gate, 
In  the  broad  sun,  lounged  Achior,  lately  fled 
From  Holofernes  ;  as  she  passed  she  spoke  : 
"  The  Lord  be  with  thee,  Achior,  all  thy  days." 
And  Achior  —  captain  of  the  Ammonites, 
In  exile,  but  befriended  of  the  Jews  — 
Paused,  and  looked  after  her  with  pensive  eyes. 
Unknown  of  any  one,  these  many  months 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  321 

His  corselet  held  a  hopeless  tender  heart 

For  dead  Manasseh's  wife  —  too  fair  she  was, 

And  rich  —  this  day  how  wonderfully  fair  ! 

But  she,  unheedful,  crossed  the  tile-paved  court, 

And  passing  through  an  archway  reached  the  place 

Where  underneath  an  ancient  aloe-tree 

Sat  Chabris  with  Ozias  and  his  friend 

Charmis,  patriarchs  of  the  leaguered  town. 

There  Judith  halted,  and  obeisance  made 
With  hands  crossed  on  her  breast,   as  was  most 

meet, 

They  being  aged  men  and  governors. 
And  as  she  bent  before  them  where  they  sate, 
They  marvelled  much  that  in  that  stricken  town 
Was  one  face  left  not  hunger-pinched,  or  wan, 
With  grief's  acquaintance  :  such  was  Judith's  face. 
And   white-haired   Charmis   looked   on    her,    and 

said : 
"  This  woman  walketh  in  the  light  of  God." 

"  Would  it   were  so  !  "   said  Judith.     "  I    know 

not ; 

But  this  I  know,  that  where  faith  is,  is  light. 
Let  us  not  doubt  Him  !     If  we  doubt  we  die. 
Oh,  is  it  true,  Ozias,  thou  hast  mind 
To  yield  the  city  to  our  enemies 
After  five  days,  unless  the  Lord  shall  stoop 
From  heaven  to  save  us  ?  " 


322  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  Ozias  said : 

"  Our  young  men  perish  on  the  battlements  ; 
Our  wives  and  children  by  the  empty  wells 
Lie  down  and  perish." 

"  If  we  doubt  we  die. 
But  whoso  trusts  in  God,  as  Isaac  did, 
Though  suffering  greatly  even  to  the  end, 
Dwells  in  a  citadel  upon  a  rock ; 
Wave  shall  not  reach  it,  nor  fire  topple  down." 

"  Our  young  men  perish  on  the  battlements," 
Answered  Ozias  ;  "  by  the  dusty  tanks, 
Our  wives  and  children." 

"  They  shall  go  and  dwell 
With  Seers  and  Prophets  in  eternal  life. 
Is  there  no  God  ? " 

"  One  only,"  Chabris  spoke, 
"  But  now  His  face  is  turned  aside  from  us. 
He  sees  not  Israel." 

"  Is  His  mercy  less 

Than  Holofernes'  ?     Shall  we  place  our  trust 
In  this  fierce  bull  of  Asshur  ?  " 

"  Five  days  more," 
Said  old  Ozias,  "  we  shall  trust  in  God." 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  323 

"  Ah  !     His  time  is  not  man's  time,"  Judith  cried, 
"  And  why  should  we,  the  dust  beneath  His  feet, 
Decide  the  hour  of  our  deliverance, 
Saying  to  Him  :   Thus  shalt  Thou  do,  and  so  ? 
Ozias,  thou  to  whom  the  heart  of  man 
Is.  as  a  scroll  illegible,  dost  thou 
Pretend  to  read  the  mystery  of  God  ?  " 

Then  gray  Ozias  bowed  his  head,  abashed, 
And   spoke   not;    but   the  white-haired   Charmis 

spoke : 

"  The  woman  sayeth  wisely.     We  are  wrong 
That  in  our  anguish  mock  the  Lord  our  God, 
Staff  that  we  rest  on,  stream  whereat  we  drink ! " 
And  then  to  Judith  :    "  Child,  what  wouldst  thou 

have  ? " 

"  I  cannot  answer  thee,  nor  make  it  plain 
In  my  own  thought.     This  night  I  had  a  dream 
Not  born  of  sleep,  for  both  my  eyes  were  wide, 
My  sense  alive  —  a  vision,  if  thou  wilt, 
Of  which  the  scattered  fragments  in  my  mind 
Are  as  the  fragments  of  a  crystal  vase 
That,  slipping  from  the  slave-girl's  careless  hand, 
Falls  on  the  marble.     No  most  cunning  skill 
Shall  join  the  pieces  and  make  whole  the  vase. 
So  with  my  vision.     I  seem  still  to  hear 
Strange  voices  round  me,  inarticulate  — 
Words  shaped  and  uttered  by  invisible  lips ; 


324  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

At  whiles  there  seems  a  palm  close  pressed  to  mine 

That  fain  would  lead  me  somewhere.     I  know  not 

What  all  portends.     Some  great  event  is  near. 

Last  night  celestial  spirits  were  on  wing 

Over  the  city.     As  I  sat  alone 

Within  the  tower,  upon  the  stroke  of  twelve  — 

Look,  look,  Ozias  !     Charmis,  Chabris,  look  ! 

See  ye  not,  yonder,  a  white  mailed  hand 

That  with  its  levelled  finger  points  through  air ! " 

The  three  old  men,  with  lifted,  startled  eyes, 
Turned,  and  beheld  on  the  transparent  void 
A  phantom  hand  in  silver  gauntlet  clad 
With  stretched  forefinger ;  and  they  spake  no  word, 
But  in  the  loose  folds  of  their  saffron  robes 
Their  wan  and  meagre  faces  muffled  up, 
And  sat  there,  like  those  statues  which  the  wind 
Near  some  old  city  on  a  desert's  edge 
Wraps  to  the  brow  in  cerements  of  red  dust. 

After  a  silence  Judith  softly  said : 
"  'T  is  gone  !     Fear  not ;  it  was  a  sign  to  me, 
To  me  alone.     Ozias,  didst  thou  mark 
The  way  it  pointed  ?  —  to  the  Eastern  Gate  ! 
Send  the  guard  orders  not  to  stay  me  there. 

0  question  not !     I  but  obey  the  sign. 

1  must  go  hence.     Before  the  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  courtyard  thrice,  I  shall  return, 
Else  shall  men's  eyes  not  look  upon  me  more. 
What  darkness  lies  between  this  hour  and  that 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  325 

Tongue  may  not  say.     The  thing  I  can  I  will, 
Leaning  on  God,  remembering  what  befell 
Jacob  in  Syria  when  he  fed  the  flocks 
Of  Laban,  and  how  Isaac  in  his  day, 
And  Abraham,  were  chastened  by  the  Lord. 
Wait  thou  in  patience ;  till  I  come,  keep  thou 
The  sanctuaries."     And  the  three  gave  oath 
To  hold  the  town ;  and  if  they  held  it  not, 
Then  should  she  find  them  in  the  synagogue 
Dead  near  the  sacred  ark ;  the  spearmen  dead 
At  the  four  gates ;  upon  the  battlements 
The  archers  bleaching.     "  Be  it  so,"  she  said, 
"  Yet  be  it  not  so  !     Shield  me  with  thy  prayers  !  " 

Then  Judith  made  obeisance  as  before, 
Passed  on,  and  left  them  pondering  her  words 
And  that  weird  spectre  hand  in  silver  mail, 
Which,  vanishing,  had  left  a  moth-like  glow 
Against  the  empty,  unsubstantial  air. 
Still  were  their  eyes  fixed  on  it  in  mute  awe. 

When  Judith  gained  her  room  in  the  dull  court, 
Where  all  the  houses  in  the  shadow  lay 
Of  the  great  synagogue,  she  threw  aside 
The  livery  of  grief,  and  in  her  hair 
Braided  a  thread  of  opals,  on  her  breasts 
Poured  precious  ointment,  and  put  on  the  robe 
That  in  a  chest  of  camphor-wood  had  lain 
Unworn  since  she  was  wed  —  the  proud  silk  robe, 
Heavy  with  vine-work,  delicate  flower  and  star, 


326  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  looped  at  the  brown  shoulder  with  a  pearl 
To  ransom  princes.     Had  he  seen  her  then, 
The  sad  young  captain  of  the  Ammonites, 
Had  he  by  chance  but  seen  her  as  she  stood 
Clasping  her  girdle,  it  had  been  despair ! 

Then  Judith  veiled  her  face,  and  took  her  scarf, 
And  wrapped  the  scarf  about  her,  and  went  forth 
Into  the  street  with  Marah,  the  handmaid. 
It  was  the  hour  when  all  the  wretched  folk 
Haunted  the  market-stalls  to  get  such  scraps 
As  famine  Jeft ;  the  rich  bazaars  were  closed, 
Those  of  the  cloth-merchants  and  jewellers  ; 
But  to  the  booths  where  aught  to  eat  was  had, 
The  starving  crowds  converged,  vociferous. 
Thus  at  that  hour  the  narrow  streets  were  thronged. 
And  as  in  summer  when  the  bearded  wheat, 
With  single  impulse  leaning  all  one  way, 
Follows  the  convolutions  of  the  wind, 
And  parts  to  left  or  right,  as  the  wind  veers  : 
So  went  men's  eyes  with  Judith,  so  the  crowd 
Parted  to  give  her  passage.     On  she  pressed 
Through  noisome  lanes  where  poverty  made  lair, 
By  stately  marble  porticos  pressed  on 
To  the  East  Gate,  a  grille  of  triple  bronze, 
That  lifted  at  her  word,  and  then  shut  down 
With  horrid  clangor.     The  crude  daylight  there 
Dazed  her  an  instant ;  then  she  set  her  face 
Towards  Holofernes'  camp  in  the  hill-land. 


BOOK  II 
THE  CAMP  OF  ASSHUR 

O  SADDENED  Muse,  sing  not  of  that  rough  way 
Her  light  feet  trod  among  the  flints  and  thorns, 
Where  some  chance  arrow  might  have  stained  her 

breast, 

And  death  lay  coiled  in  the  slim  viper's  haunt ; 
Nor  how  the  hot  sun  tracked  them  till  they  reached, 
She  and  her  maid,  a  place  of  drooping  boughs 
Cooled  by  a  spring  set  in  a  cup  of  moss, 
And  bathed  their  cheeks,  and  gathered  mulberries, 
And  at  the  sudden  crackling  of  a  twig 
Were  wellnigh  dead  with  fear :  sing,  rather,  now 
Of  Holofernes,  stretched  before  his  tent 
Upon  the  spotted  hide  of  that  wild  beast 
He  slew  beside  the  Ganges,  he  alone 
With  just  his  dagger;  from  the  jungle  there 
The  creature  leapt  on  him,  and  tore  his  throat, 
In  the  dim  starlight :  that  same  leopard  skin 
Went  with  him  to  all  wars.     This  day  he  held 
A  council  of  the  chiefs.     Close  at  his  feet 
His  iron  helmet  trailed  on  the  sere  grass 
Its  horsehair  plume  —  a  Hindu  maiden's  hair, 
327 


328  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Men  whispered  under  breath ;  and  from  his  lance, 
The  spear  set  firmly  in  the  sun-scorched  earth 
Where  he  had  thrust  it,  hung  his  massive  shield. 
Upon  the  shield  a  dragon  was,  with  eyes 
Of  sea-green  emeralds,  which  caught  the  light 
And  flashed  it  back,  and  seemed  a  thing  that  lived. 

There  lay  the  Prince  of  Asshur,  with  his  chin 
Propped  on  one  hand,  and  the  gaunt  captains  ranged 
In  groups  about  him ;  men  from  Kurdistan, 
Men  from  the  Indus,  and  the  salt-sea  dunes, 
And  those  bleak  snow-lands  that  to  northward  lie  — 
A  motley  conclave,  now  in  hot  debate 
Whether  to  press  the  siege  or  wait  the  end. 
And  one  said  :  "  Lo  !  the  fruit  is  ripe  to  fall, 
Let  us  go  pluck  it ;  better  to  lie  dead, 
Each  on  his  shield,  than  stay  here  with  no  grain 
To  feed  the  mares,  and  no  bread  left."    "  The  moat 
Is  wide,"  said  one,  "  and  many  are  the  spears, 
And  stout  the  gates.     Have  we  not  tried  our  men 
Against  the  well-set  edges  of  those  spears  ? 
Note  how  the  ravens  wheel  in  hungry  files 
Above  the  trenches,  and  straight  disappear. 
See  where  they  rise,  red-beaked  and  surfeited ! 
'Has  it  availed  ?     The  city  stands.     Within 
There  's  that  shall  gnaw  its  heart  out,  if  we  wait, 
And  bide  the  sovran  will  of  the  wise  gods." 
Some  of  the  younger  captains  made  assent, 
But  others  scowled,  and   mocked   them,  and  one 
cried : 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  329 

"  Ye  should  have  tarried  by  the  river's  bank 

At  home,  and  decked  your  hair  with  butterflies 

Like  the  king's  harlots.     Little  use  are  ye." 

"  Nay,"  cried  another,  "  they  did  well  to  come ; 

They  have  their  uses.     When  our  meat  is  gone 

We  '11  even  feed  upon  the  tender  flesh 

Of  these  tame  girls,  who,  though  they  dress  in  steel, 

Like  more  the  tremor  of  a  cithern  string 

Than  the  shrill  whistle  of  an  arrowhead." 

Death  lay  in  lighter  spoken  words  than  these, 
And  quick  hands  sought  the  hilt,  and  spears  were 

poised, 

And  they  had  one  another  slain  outright, 
These  fiery  lords,  when  suddenly  each  blade 
Slipped  back  to  sheath,  and  the  pale  captains  stood 
Transfixed,  beholding  in  their  very  midst 
A  woman  whose  exceeding  radiance 
Of  brow  and  bosom  made  her  garments  seem 
Threadbare  and  lustreless,  yet  whose  attire 
Outshone  the  purples  of  a  Persian  queen 
That  decks  her  for  some  feast,  or  makes  her  rich 
To  welcome  back  from  war  her  lord  the  king. 

For  Judith,  who  knew  all  the  hillside  paths 
As  one  may  know  the  delicate  azure  veins 
That  branch  and  cross  on  his  beloved's  wrist, 
Had  passed  the  Tartar  guards  in  the  thick  wood, 
And  gained  the  camp's  edge,  and  there  stayed  hei 
steps, 


330  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Appalled  at  sight  of  all  those  angry  lords, 
But  taking  heart,  had  noiselessly  approached, 
And  stood  among  them,  unperceived  till  then. 
Now  on  the  air  arose  such  murmurous  sound 
As  when  a  swarm  of  honey-bees  in  June 
Rises,  and  hangs  mist-like  above  the  hives, 
And  fills  the  air  with  its  sweet  monotone. 
The  Prince  of  Asshur  knew  not  what  it  meant, 
And  springing  to  his  feet,  thrust  back  the  chiefs 
That  hampered  him,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice : 
"  Who  breaks  upon  our  councils  ?  "     Then  his  eyes 
Discovered  Judith.     As  in  a  wild  stretch 
Of  silt  and  barren  rock,  a  gracious  flower, 
Born  of  the  seed  some  bird  of  passage  dropped, 
Leans  from  the  stem  and  with  its  beauty  lights 
The  lonely  waste,  so  Judith,  standing  there, 
Seemed  to  illumine  all  the  dismal  camp, 
And  Holofernes'  voice  took  softer  tone : 
"Whence    comest    thou  —  thy   station,    and    thy 
name  ? " 

"  Merari's  daughter,  dead  Manasseh's  wife, 
Judith.     I  come  from  yonder  hapless  town." 

"  Methought  the  phantom   of  some   murdered 

queen 

From  the  dead  years  had  risen  at  my  feet ! 
If  these  Samarian  women  are  thus  shaped, 
O  my  brave  Captains,  let  not  one  be  slain  !  — 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  331 

What  seekest  thou  within  the  hostile  lines 
Of  Asshur  ?  " 

"  Holofernes." 

"  This  is  he." 

"  O  good  my  Lord,"  cried  Judith,  "  if  indeed 
Thou  art  that  Holofernes  whom  I  seek, 
And  dread,  in  truth,  to  find,  low  at  thy  feet 
Behold  thy  handmaid  who  in  fear  has  flown 
From  a  doomed  people." 

"  If  this  thing  be  so, 

Thou  shalt  have  shelter  of  our  tents,  and  food, 
And  meet  observance,  though  our  enemy. 
Touching  thy  people,  they  with  tears  of  blood, 
And  ashes  on  their  heads,  shall  rue  the  hour 
They  brought  not  tribute  to  the  lord  of  all, 
The  king  at  Nineveh.     But  thou  shalt  live." 

"  O  good  my  lord,"  said  Judith,  "  as  thou  wilt 
So  would  thy  servant.     And  I  pray  thee  now 
Let  them  that  listen  stand  awhile  aside, 
For  I  have  that  for  thine  especial  ear 
Of  import  to  thee." 

Then  the  chiefs  fell  back 
Under  the  trees,  and  leaned  on  their  huge  shields, 


332  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Eyeing  the  Hebrew  woman  whose  sweet  looks 
Brought  them  home-thoughts  and  visions  of  theii 

wives 

In  that  far  land  they  might  not  see  again. 
And  Judith  spoke,  and  they  strained  ear  to  catch 
Her  words ;  but  only  the  soft  voice  was  theirs  : 

"  My  lord,  if  yet  thou  boldest  in  thy  thought 
The  words  which  Achior  the  Ammonite 
Once  spake  to  thee  concerning  Israel, 
O  treasure  them  ;  no  guile  was  in  those  words. 
True  is  it,  master,  that  our  people  kneel 
To  an  unseen  but  not  an  unknown  God  : 
By  day  and  night  He  watches  over  us, 
And  while  we  worship  Him  we  cannot  fall, 
Our  tabernacles  shall  be  unprofaned, 
Our  spears  invincible ;  but  if  we  sin, 
If  we  transgress  the  law  by  which  we  live, 
Our  sanctuaries  shall  be  desecrate, 
Our  tribes  thrust  forth  into  the  wilderness, 
Scourged  and  accursed.     Therefore,  O  my  lord, 
Seeing  this  nation  wander  from  the  faith 
Taught  of  the  Prophets,  I  have  fled  dismayed. 
Heed,  Holofernes,  what  I  speak  this  day, 
And  if  the  thing  I  tell  thee  prove  not  true, 
Let  not  thy  falchion  tarry  in  its  sheath, 
But  seek  my  heart.     Why  should   thy  handmaid 

live, 
Having  deceived  thee,  thou  the  crown  of  men  ? " 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  333 

She  spoke,  and  paused ;  and  sweeter  on  his  ear 
Was  Judith's  voice  than  ever  to  him  seemed 
The  silver  laughter  of  the  Assyrian  girls 
In  the  bazaars,  or  when  in  the  cool  night, 
After  the  sultry  heat  of  the  long  day, 
They  came  down  to  the  river  with  their  lutes. 
The  ceaseless  hum  that  rose  from  the  near  tents, 
The  neighing  of  the  awful  battle-steeds, 
The  winds  that  sifted  through  the  fronded  palms 
He  heard  not ;  only  Judith's  voice  he  heard. 

"  O  listen,  Holofernes,  my  sweet  lord, 
And  thou  shalt  rule  not  only  Bethulia, 
Rich  with  its  hundred  altars'  crusted  gold, 
But  Cades-Barne  and  Jerusalem, 
And  all  the  vast  hill-land  to  the  blue  sea. 
For  I  am  come  to  give  into  thy  hand 
The  key  of  Israel  —  Israel  now  no  more, 
Since  she  disowns  the  Prophets  and  her  God." 

"  Speak,  for  I  needs  must  listen  to  these  things." 

"  Know  then,  O  prince,  it  is  our  yearly  use 
To  lay  aside  the  first  fruits  of  the  grain, 
And  so  much  oil,  so  many  skins  of  wine, 
Which,  being  sanctified,  are  held  intact 
For  the  High  Priests  who  serve  before  our  Lord 
In  the  great  temple  at  Jerusalem. 
This  holy  food  —  which  even  to  touch  is  death  — 


334  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

The  rulers,  sliding  from  their  ancient  faith, 
Fain  would  lay  hands  on,  being  wellnigh  starved ; 
And  they  have  sent  a  runner  to  the  Priests 
(The  Jew  Abijah,  who,  at  dead  of  night, 
Shot  like  a  javelin  between  thy  guards), 
Bearing  a  parchment  begging  that  the  Church 
Yield  them  permit  to  eat  the  sacred  corn. 
But  't  is  not  lawful  they  should  do  this  thing, 
Yet  will  they  do  it.     Then  shalt  thou  behold 
The  archers  tumbling  headlong  from  the  walls, 
Their  strength  gone  from  them  ;  thou  shalt  see  the 

spears 

Splitting  like  reeds  within  the  spearmen's  hands, 
And  the  strong  captains  tottering  like  old  men 
Stricken  with  palsy.     Then,  O  mighty  prince, 
Then  with  thy  trumpets  blaring  doleful  dooms, 
And  thy  silk  banners  waving  in  the  wind, 
With  squares  of  men  and  eager  clouds  of  horse 
Thou  shalt  sweep  down  on  them,  and  strike  them 

dead! 

But  now,  my  lord,  before  this  come  to  pass, 
Three  days  must  wane,  for  they  touch  not  the  food 
Until  the  Jew  Abijah  shall  return 
With  the  Priests'  message.     Here  among  thy  hosts, 
O  Holofernes,  would  I  dwell  the  while, 
Asking  but  this,  that  I  and  my  handmaid 
Each  night,  at  the  twelfth  hour,  may  egress  have 
Unto  the  valley,  there  to  weep  and  pray 
That  God  forsake  this  nation  in  its  sin. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  335 

And  as  my  prophecy  prove  true  or  false, 
So  be  it  with  me." 


Judith  ceased,  and  stood 

With  hands  crossed  on  her  breast,  and  face  up- 
raised. 

And  Holofernes  answered  not  at  first, 
But  bent  his  eyes  on  the  uplifted  face, 
And  mused,  and  then  made  answer :  "  Be  it  so. 
Thou  shalt  be  free  to  go  and  come,  and  none 
Shall  stay  thee,  nor  molest  thee,  these  three  days. 
And  if,  O  pearl  of  women,  the  event 
Prove  not  a  dwarf  beside  the  prophecy, 
Then  hath  the  sun  not  looked  upon  thy  like ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  as  honey  on  men's  lips, 
And  in  their  memory  fragrant  as  a  spice. 
Music  shall  wait  on  thee ;  crowns  shalt  thou  have, 
And  jewel  chests  of  costly  sandal-wood, 
And  robes  in  texture  like  the  ring-dove's  throat, 
And  milk-white  mares,  and  slaves,  and  chariots ; 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me  in  Nineveh, 
In  Nineveh,  the  City  of  the  Gods." 

Then  on  her  cheek  the  ripe  blood  of  her  race 
Faltered  an  instant.     "  Even  as  thou  wilt 
So  would  thy  servant."     Thereupon  the  slaves 
Brought  meat  and  wine,  and  placed  them   in   a 

tent, 
A  green  pavilion  standing  separate 


336  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Hard  by  the  brook,  for  Judith  and  her  maid. 
But  Judith  ate  not,  saying  :  "  Master,  no. 
It  is  not  lawful  that  we  taste  of  these ; 
My  maid  has  brought  a  pouch  of  parched  corn, 
And  bread  and  figs  and  wine  of  our  own  land, 
Which  shall  not  fail  us."     Holofernes  said, 
"  So  let  it  be,"  and  pushing  back  the  screen 
Passed  out,  and  left  them  sitting  in  the  tent. 

And  when  they  were  alone  within  the  tent, 
"O  Marah,"  cried  the  mistress,  "do  I  dream? 
Is  this  the  dread  Assyrian  rumor  paints, 
He  who  amid  the  hills  of  Ragau  smote 
The  hosts  of  King  Arphaxad,  and  despoiled 
Sidon  and  Tyrus,  and  left  none  unslain  ? 
Gentle  is  he  we  thought  so  terrible, 
Whose  name  we  stilled  unruly  children  with 
At  bedtime  —    See  !  the  Bull  of  Asshur  comes  ! 
And  all  the  little  ones  would  straight  to  bed. 
Is  he  not  statured  as  should  be  a  king  ? 
Beside  our  tallest  captain  this  grave  prince 
Towers  like  the  palm  above  the  olive-tree. 
A  gentle  prince,  with  gracious  words  and  ways." 
And  Marah  said  :  "  A  gentle  prince  he  is  — 
To  look  on  ;  I  misdoubt  his  ways  and  words." 
"  And  I,  O  Marah,  I  would  trust  him  not !  " 
And  Judith  laid  her  cheek  upon  her  arm 
With  a  quick  laugh,  and  like  to  diamonds 
Her  white  teeth  shone  between  the  parted  lips. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  337 

Now  Holofernes  held  himself  aloof 
That  day,  spoke  little  with  his  chiefs,  nor  cared 
To  watch  the  athletes  at  their  games  of  strength 
Under  the  cedars,  as  his  custom  was, 
But  in  a  grove  of  clustered  tamarisk  trees 
On  the  camp's  outer  limit  walked  alone, 
Save  for  one  face  that  haunted  the  blue  air, 
Save  for  one  voice  that  murmured  at  his  ear. 
There,  till  the  twilight  flooded  the  low  lands 
And  the  stars  came,  these  kept  him  company. 

The  word  of  Judith's  beauty  had  spread  wide 
Through  the  gray  city  that  stretched  up  the  slope ; 
And  as  the  slow  dusk  gathered  many  came 
From  far  encampments,  on  some  vain  pretext, 
To  pass  the  green  pavilion  —  long-haired  men 
That  dwelt  by  the  Hydaspes,  and  the  sons 
Of  the  Elymeans,  and  slim  Tartar  youths, 
And  folk  that  stained  their  teeth  with  betel-nut 
And  wore  rough  goatskin,  herdsmen  of  the  hills ; 
But  saw  not  Judith,  who  from  common  air 
Was  shut,  and  none  might  gaze  upon  her  face. 

But  when  the   night  fell,  and  the  camps  were 

still, 

And  nothing  moved  beneath  the  icy  stars 
In  their  blue  bourns,  save  some  tall  Kurdish  guard 
That  stalked  among  the  cedars,  Judith  called 
And  wakened  Marah.  and  the  sentinel 


338  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Drew  back,  and  let  them  pass  beyond  the  lines 

Into  the  plain  ;  and  Judith's  heart  was  full 

Seeing  the  watchfires  burning  on  the  towers 

Of  her  own  city.     As  a  hundred  years 

The  hours  seemed  since  she  stood  within  its  walls 

Her  heart  so  yearned  to  it.     Here  on  the  sand 

The  two  knelt  down  in  prayer,  and  Marah  thought : 

"  How  is  it  we  should  come  so  far  to  pray  ?  " 

Not  knowing  Judith's  cunning  that  had  gained 

By  this  device  free  passage  to  and  fro 

Between  the  guards.     When  they  had  prayed,  they 

rose 
And  went  through  the  black  shadows  back  to  camp. 

One  cresset  twinkled  dimly  in  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes,  and  Bagoas,  his  slave, 
Lay  on  a  strip  of  matting  at  the  door, 
Drunk  with  the  wine  of  sleep.     Not  so  his  lord 
On  the  soft  leopard  skin  ;  a  fitful  sleep 
Was  his  this  night,  tormented  by  a  dream 
That  ever  waked   him.     Through   the   curtained 

air 

A  tall  and  regal  figure  came  and  went ; 
At  times  a  queen's  bright  diadem  pressed  down 
The  bands  of  perfumed   hair,  and  gold -wrought 

stuffs 

Rustled  ;  at  times  the  apparition  stood 
Draped  only  in  a  woven  mist  of  veils, 
Like  the  king's  dancing-girls  at  Nineveh. 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  339 

And  once  it  stole  to  his  couch  side,  and  stooped 
And  touched  his  brow  with  tantalizing  lip, 
Undoing  all  the  marvel  of  the  dream  ; 
For  Holofernes  turned  then  on  the  couch, 
Sleep  fled  his  eyelids,  and  would  come  no  more. 


BOOK   III 
THE   FLIGHT 

ON  the  horizon,  as  the  prow  of  Dawn 

Ploughed  through  the  huddled  clouds,  a  wave  of 

gold 

Went  surging  up  the  dark,  and  breaking  there 
Dashed  its  red  spray  against  the  cliffs  and  spurs, 
But  left  the  valley  in  deep  shadow  still. 
And  still  the  mist  above  the  Asshur  camp 
Hung  in  white  folds,  and  on  the  pendent  boughs 
The   white   dew   hung.     While   yet   no   bird   had 

moved 

A  wing  in  its  dim  nest,  the  wakeful  prince 
Rose   from   the  couch,  and  wrapped  in  his   long 

cloak 

Stepped  over  the  curved  body  of  the  slave, 
And  thridding  moodily  the  street  of  tents 
Came  to  the  grove  of  clustered  tamarisk  trees 
Where   he   had   walked    and   mused    the   bygone 

day. 

Here  on  a  broken  ledge  he  sat  him  down, 
Soothed  by  the  morning  scent  of  flower  and  herb 
340 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  34* 

And  the  cool  vintage  of  the  unbreathed  air ; 
And  presently  the  sleep  that  night  denied 
The  gray  dawn  brought  him ;  and  he  slept  and 
dreamed. 

Before  him  rose  the  pinnacles  and  domes 
Of  Nineveh  ;  he  walked  the  streets,  and  heard 
The  chatter  of  the  merchants  in  the  booths 
Pricing  their  wares,  the  water-seller's  cry, 
The  flower-girl's  laugh  —  a  festival  it  seemed, 
In  honor  of  some  conqueror  or  god, 
For  cloths  of  gold  and  purple  tissues  hung 
From  frieze  and  peristyle,  and  cymbals  clashed, 
And  the  long  trumpets  sounded  :  now  he  breathed 
The  airs  of  a  great  river  sweeping  down 
Past  ruined  temples  and  the  tombs  of  kings, 
And  heard  the  wash  of  waves  on  a  vague  coast. 
Then,  in  the  swift  transition  of  a  dream, 
He  found  himself  in  a  damp  catacomb 
Searching  by  torchlight  for  his  own  carved  name 
On  a  sarcophagus  ;  and  as  he  searched 
A  group  of  wailing  shapes  drew  slowly  near  — 
The  hates  and  cruel  passions  of  his  youth 
Become  incorporate  and  immortal  things, 
With  tongue  to  blazon  his  eternal  guilt ; 
And  on  him  fell  strange  terror,  who  had  known 
Neither  remorse  nor  terror,  and  he  sprang 
Upon  his  feet,  and  broke  from  out  the  spell, 
Clutching  his  sword-hilt ;  and  before  him  stood 


342  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Bagoas,  the  eunuch,  bearing  on  his  head 
An  urn  just  filled  at  the  clear  brook  hard  by. 


Then  Holofernes  could  have  struck  the  slave 
Dead  in  his  path  —  what  man  had  ever  seen 
The  Prince  of  Asshur  tremble  ?     But  he  turned 
Back  to  the  camp,  and  the  slave  followed  on 
At  heel,  grown  sullen  also,  like  a  hound 
That  takes  each  color  of  his  master's  mood. 
And  when  the  two  had  reached  the  tent,  the  prince 
Halted,  and  went  not  in  at  once,  but  said : 
"Go,  fetch  me  wine,  and  let  my  soul  make  cheer, 
For  I  am  sick  with  visions  of  the  night." 

Within  the  tent  alone,  he  sat  and  mused : 
"  What  thing  is  this  hath  so  unstrung  my  heart 
A  foolish  dream  appalls  me  ?  what  dark  spell  ? 
Is  it  an  omen  that  the  end  draws  nigh  ? 
Such  things  foretell  the  doom  of  fateful  men  — 
Stars,  comets,  apparitions  hint  their  doom. 
The  night  before  my  grandsire  got  his  wound 
In  front  of  Memphis,  and  therewith  was  dead, 
He  dreamt  a  lying  Ethiop  he  had  slain 
Was  strangling  him ;  and,  later,  my  own  sire 
Saw  death  in  a  red  writing  on  a  leaf. 
And  I,  too  "  —     Here  Bagoas  brought  the  wine 
And  set  it  by  him  ;  but  he  pushed  it  back. 
"  Nay,  I  '11  not  drink  it,  take  away  the  cup ; 
And  this  day  let  none  vex  me  with  affairs, 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  343 

For  I  am  ill  and  troubled  in  my  thought. 
Go  —  no,  come  hither  !  these  are  my  commands  : 
Search  thou  the  camp  for  choicest  flesh  and  fruit, 
And  spread  to-night  a  feast  in  this  same  tent, 
And  hang  the  place  with  fragrant-smelling  boughs 
Or  such  wild  flowers  as  hide  in  the  ravine ; 
Then  bid  the  Hebrew  woman  that  she  come 
To  banquet  with  us.     As  thou  lovest  life, 
Bring  her !     What  matters,  when  the  strong  gods 

call, 
Whether  they  find  a  man  at  feast  or  prayer  ?  " 

Bagoas  bowed  him  to  his  master's  foot 
With  hidden  cynic  smile,  and  went  his  way 
To  spoil  the  camp  of  such  poor  food  as  was, 
And  gather  fragrant  boughs  to  dress  the  tent, 
Sprigs  of  the  clove  and  sprays  of  lavender ; 
And  meeting  Marah  with  her  water  jar 
At  the  brookside,  delivered  his  lord's  word. 
Then  Judith  sent  him  answer  in  this  wise : 
"  O  what  am  I  that  should  gainsay  my  lord  ? " 
And  Holofernes  found  the  answer  well. 
"  Were  this  not  so,"  he  mused,  "  would  not  my  name 
Be  as  a  jest  and  gibe  'mong  womankind  ? 
Maidens  would  laugh  behind  their  unloosed  hair." 

"  O  Marah,  see !  my  lord  keeps  not  his  word. 
He  is  as  those  false  jewellers  who  change 
Some  rich  stone  for  a  poorer,  when  none  looks. 


344  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Three  days  he  promised,  and  not  two  are  gone ! " 
Thus  Judith  said,  and  smiled,  but  in  her  heart : 
"  O  save  me,  Lord,  from  this  dark  cruel  prince, 
And  from  mine  own  self  save  me ;  for  this  man, 
A  worshipper  of  fire  and  senseless  stone, 
Slayer  of  babes  upon  the  mother's  breast, 
He,  even  he,  hath  by  some  conjurer's  trick, 
Or  by  his  heathen  beauty,  in  me  stirred 
Such  pity  as  stays  anger's  lifted  hand. 
O  let  not  my  hand  falter,  in  Thy  name  !  " 
And  thrice  that  day,  by  hazard  left  alone, 
Judith  bowed  down,  upon  the  broidered  mats 
Bowed    down   in   shame   and   wretchedness,    and 

prayed  : 
"  Since    Thou    hast    sent    the    burden,    send    the 

strength  ! 

O  Thou  who  lovest  Israel,  give  me  strength 
And  cunning  such  as  never  woman  had, 
That  my  deceit  may  be  his  stripe  and  scar, 
My  kiss  his  swift  destruction.     This  for  thee, 
My  city,  Bethulia,  this  for  thee  !  " 

Now  the  one  star  that  ruled  the  night-time  then, 
Against  the  deep  blue-blackness  of  the  sky 
Took  shape,  and  shone  ;  and  Judith  at  the  door 
Of  the  pavilion  waited  for  Bagoas ; 
She  stood  there  lovelier  than  the  night's  one  star. 
But  Marah,  looking  on  her,  could  have  wept, 
For  Marah's  soul  was  troubled,  knowing  all 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  345 

That  had  been  hidden  from  her  till  this  hour. 
The  deadly  embassy  that  brought  them  there, 
And  the  dark  moment's  peril,  now  she  knew. 
But  Judith  smiled,  and  whispered,  "  It  is  well ;  " 
And  later,  paling,  whispered,  "  Fail  me  not !  " 

Then  came  Bagoas,  and  led  her  to  the  tent 
Of  Holofernes,  and  she  entered  in 
And  knelt  before  him  in  the  cressets'  light 
Demurely  like  a  slave-girl  at  the  feet 
Of  her  new  master,  whom  she  fain  would  please, 
He  having  paid  a  helmetful  of  gold 
That  day  for  her  upon  the  market-place, 
And  would  have  paid  a  hundred  pieces  more. 
So  Judith  knelt ;  and  the  dark  prince  inclined 
Above  her  graciously,  and  bade  her  rise 
And  sit  with  him  on  the  spread  leopard  skin. 
Yet  she  would  not,  but  rose,  and  let  her  scarf 
Drift  to  her  feet,  and  stood  withdrawn  a  space, 
Bright  in  her  jewels ;  and  so  stood,  and  seemed 
Like  some  rich  idol  that  a  general, 
Sacking  a  town,  finds  in  a  marble  niche 
And  sets  among  the  pillage  in  his  tent. 

"  Nay,  as  thou  wilt,  O  fair  Samarian !  " 
Thus  Holofernes,  "  thou  art  empress  here." 

"  Not  queen,  not  empress  would  I  be,  O  prince," 
Judith  gave  answer,  "  only  thy  handmaid, 


346  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  one  not  well  content  to  share  her  charge." 
Then  Judith  came  to  his  couch  side,  and  said  : 
"  This  night,  O  prince,  no  other  slave  than  I 
Shall  wait  on  thee  with  meat  and  fruit  and  wine, 
And  bring  the  scented  water  for  thy  hands, 
And  spread  the  silvered  napkin  on  thy  knee. 
So  subtle  am  I,  I  shall  know  thy  thought 
Before  thou  thinkest,  and  thy  spoken  word 
Ere  thou  canst  speak  it.     Let  Bagoas  go 
This  night  among  his  people,  save  he  fear 
To  lose  his   place  and  wage,  through  some   one 

else 
More  trained  and  skilful  showing  his  defect ! " 

Prince  Holofernes  smiled  upon  her  mirth, 
Finding  it  pleasant.     "  O  Bagoas,"  he  cried, 
"  Another  hath  usurped  thee.     Get  thee  gone, 
Son  of  the  midnight !     But  stray  not  from  camp, 
Lest  the  lean  tiger-whelps  should  break  their  fast, 
And  thou  forget  I  must  be  waked  at  dawn." 

So  when  Bagoas  had  gone  into  the  night, 
Judith  set  forth  the  viands  for  the  prince ; 
Upon  a  stand  at  the  low  couch's  side 
Laid  grapes  and  apricots,  and  poured  the  wine, 
And  while  he  ate  she  held  the  jewelled  cup, 
Nor  failed  to  fill  it  to  the  silver's  edge 
Each  time  he  drank ;  and  the  red  vintage  seemed 
More  rich  to  him  because  of  her  light  hands 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  347 

And  the  gold  bangle  that  slipped  down  her  wrist. 
Now,  in  the  compass  of  his  thirty  years 
In  no  one  day  had  he  so  drank  of  wine. 

The  opiate  breath  of  the  half-wilted  flowers 
And  the  gray  smoke  that  from  the  cressets  curled 
Made  the  air  dim  and  heavy  in  the  tent ; 
And  the  prince  drowsed,  and  through  the  curtained 

mist, 

As  in  his  last  night's  vision,  came  and  went 
The  tall  and  regal  figure :  now  he  saw, 
Outlined  against  the  light,  a  naked  arm 
Bound  near  the  shoulder  by  a  hoop  of  gold, 
And  now  a  sandal  flashed,  with  jewels  set. 
Through  half-shut  lids  he  watched  her  come  and 

go, 

This  Jewish  queen  that  was  somehow  his  slave  ; 
And  once  he  leaned  to  her,  and  felt  her  breath 
Upon  his  cheek  like  a  perfumed  air 
Blown  from  a  far-off  grove  of  cinnamon  ; 
Then  at  the  touch  shrank  back,  but  knew  not  why, 
Moved  by  some  instinct  deeper  than  his  sense. 
At  last  all  things  lost  sequence  in  his  mind ; 
And  in  a  dream  he  saw  her  take  the  lute 
And  hold  it  to  her  bosom  while  she  sang ; 
And  in  a  dream  he  listened  to  the  song  — 
A  folklore  legend  of  an  ancient  king, 
The  first  on  earth  that  ever  tasted  wine, 
Who  drank,  and  from  him  cast  a  life-long  grief 


348  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

As  't  were  a  faded  mantle.     Like  a  mist 
The  music  drifted  from  the  silvery  strings : 

"  The  small  green  grapes  in  heavy  clusters  grew, 
Feeding  on  mystic  moonlight  and  white  dew 
And  amber  sunshine,  the  long  summer  through  ; 

"  Till,  with  faint  tremor  in  her  veins,  the  Vine 
Felt  the  delicious  pulses  of  the  wine  ; 
And  the  grapes  ripened  in  the  year's  decline. 

"And   day  by   day  the  Virgins  watched   their 

charge ; 

And  when,  at  last,  beyond  the  horizon's  marge, 
The  harvest-moon  drooped  beautiful  and  large, 

"  The  subtle  spirit  in  the  grape  was  caught, 
And  to  the  slowly  dying  monarch  brought 
In  a  great  cup  fantastically  wrought. 

"  Of  this  he  drank  ;  then  forthwith  from  his  brain 
Went  the  weird  malady,  and  once  again 
He  walked  the  palace,  free  of  scar  or  pain  — 

"  But  strangely  changed,  for  somehow  he  had 

lost 

Body  and  voice  :  the  courtiers,  as  he  crossed 
The    royal    chambers,    whispered  —  The    Ring's 
ghost!" 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  349 

The  ceasing  of  the  music  broke  the  drowse, 
Half  broke  the  drowse,  of  the  dazed  prince,  who 

cried  : 

"  Give  me  the  drink  !  and  thou,  take  thou  the  cup  ! 
Fair  Judith,  't  is  a  medicine  that  cures ; 
Grief  will  it  cure  and  every  ill,  save  love," 
And  as  he  spoke,  he  stooped  to  kiss  the  hand 
That  held  the  chalice  ;  but  the  cressets  swam 
In  front  of  him,  and  all  within  the  tent 
Grew  strange  and  blurred,  and  from  the  place  he  sat 
He  sank,  and  fell  upon  the  camel-skins, 
Supine,  inert,  bound  fast  in  bands  of  wine. 

And  Judith  looked  on  him,  and  pity  crept 
Into  her  bosom.     The  ignoble  sleep 
Robbed  not  his  pallid  brow  of  majesty 
Nor  from  the  curved  lip  took  away  the  scorn ; 
These  rested  still.     Like  some  Chaldean  god 
Thrown  from  its  fane,  he  lay  there  at  her  feet. 
O  broken  sword  of  proof  !     O  prince  betrayed  ! 
Her  he  had  trusted,  he  who  trusted  none. 
The  sharp  thought  pierced  her,  and  her  breast  was 

torn, 

And  half  she  longed  to  bid  her  purpose  die, 
To  stay,  to  weep,  to  kneel  down  at  his  side 
And  let  her  long  hair  trail  upon  his  face. 

Then  Judith  dared  not  look  upon  him  more, 
Lest  she  should  lose  her  reason  through  her  eyes ; 


350  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

And  with  her  palms  she  covered  up  her  eyes 

To  shut  him  out ;  but  from  that  subtler  sight 

Within,  she  could  not  shut  him,  and  so  stood. 

Then  suddenly  there  fell  upon  her  ear 

The  moan  of  children  gathered  in  the  streets, 

And  throngs  of  famished  women  swept  her  by, 

Wringing  their  wasted  hands,  and  all  the  woes 

Of  the  doomed  city  pleaded  at  her  heart. 

As  if  she  were  within  the  very  walls 

These   things  she   heard  and  saw.     With  hurried 

breath 

Judith  blew  out  the  lights,  all  lights  save  one, 
And  from  its  nail  the  heavy  falchion  took, 
And  with  both  hands  tight  clasped  upon  the  hilt 
Thrice  smote  the  Prince  of  Asshur  as  he  lay, 
Thrice  on  his  neck  she  smote  him  as  he  lay, 
Then  from  her  flung  the  cruel  curved  blade 
That  in  the  air  an  instant  flashed,  and  fell. 

Outside  stood  Marah,  waiting,  as  was  planned, 
And  Judith  whispered  :  "  It  is  done.     Do  thou ! " 
Then  Marah  turned,  and  went  into  the  tent, 
And  pulled  the  hangings  down  about  the  corse, 
And  in  her  mantle  wrapped  the  brazen  head, 
And  brought  it  with  her.     Somewhere  a  huge  gong 
With  sullen  throbs  proclaimed  the  midnight  hour 
As  the  two  women  passed  the  silent  guard ; 
With  measured  footstep  passed,  as  if  to  prayer. 
But  on  the  camp's  lone  edge  fear  gave  them  wing, 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  351 

And  glancing  not  behind,  they  fled  like  wraiths 
Through  the  hushed  night  into  the  solemn  woods, 
Where,  from  gnarled  roots  and  palsied  trees,  black 

shapes 

Rose  up,  and  seemed  to  follow  them ;  and  once 
Some  creature  startled  in  the  underbrush 
Made  cry,  and  froze  the  blood  about  their  hearts. 
Across  the  plain,  with  backward-streaming  hair 
And  death-white  face,  they  fled,  until  at  last 
They  reached  the  rocky  steep  upon  whose  crest 
The  gray  walls  loomed  through  vapor.     This  they 

clomb, 

Wild  with  the  pregnant  horrors  of  the  night, 
And  flung  themselves  against  the  city  gates. 

Hushed  as  the  grave  lay  all  the  Asshur  camp, 
Bound  in  that  sleep  which  seals  the  eyes  at  dawn 
With  double  seals,  when  from  the  outer  waste 
An  Arab  scout  rushed  on  the  morning  watch 
With  a  strange  story  of  a  head  that  hung, 
Newly  impaled  there,  on  the  city  wall. 
He  had  crept  close  upon  it  through  the  fog, 
And  seen  it  plainly,  set  on  a  long  lance 
Over  the  gate  —  a  face  with  snake-like  curls, 
That  seemed  a  countenance  that  he  had  known 
Somewhere,  sometime,  and  now  he  knew  it  not, 
To  give  it  name  ;  but  him  it  straightway  knew, 
And  turned,  and  stared  with  dumb  recognizance 
Till  it  was  not  in  mortal  man  to  stay 


352  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

Confronting  those  dead  orbs  that  mimicked  life. 
On  this  he  fled,  and  he  could  swear  the  thing, 
Disjoined  by  magic  from  the  lance's  point, 
Came  rolling  through  the  stubble  at  his  heel. 
Thus  ran  the  Arab's  tale ;  and  some  that  heard 
Laughed   at   the  man,  and   muttered :     "  O   thou 

fool ! " 

Others  were  troubled,  and  withdrew  apart 
Upon  a  knoll  that  overlooked  the  town, 
Which  now  loomed  dimly  out  of  the  thick  haze. 

Bagoas  passing,  caught  the  Arab's  words, 
Halted  a  moment,  and  then  hurried  on, 
Alert  to  bear  these  tidings  to  his  lord, 
Whom  he  was  bid  to  waken  at  that  hour ; 
Last  night  his  lord  so  bade  him.     At  the  tent, 
Which  stood  alone  in  a  small  plot  of  ground, 
Bagoas  paused,  and  called  :  "  My  lord,  awake ! 
I  come  to  wake  thee  as  thou  badest  me." 
But  only  silence  answered ;  and  again 
He  called  :  "  My  lord,  sleep  not !  the  dawn  is  here, 
And  stranger  matter !  "     Still  no  answer  came. 
Then  black  Bagoas,  smiling  in  his  beard 
To  think  in  what  soft  chains  his  master  lay, 
Love's  captive,  drew  the  leather  screen  aside 
And  marvelled,  finding  no  one  in  the  tent 
Save  Holofernes  buried  at  full  length 
In  the  torn  canopy.     Bagoas  stooped, 


JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES  353 

And  softly  lifting  up  the  damask  cloth 
Beheld  the  Prince  of  Asshur  lying  dead. 

As  in  some  breathless  wilderness  at  night 
A  leopard,  pinioned  by  a  falling  tree 
That  takes  him  unaware  curled  up  in  sleep, 
Shrieks,  and  the  ghostly  echo  in  her  cave 
Mimics  the  cry  in  every  awful  key 
And  sends  it  flying  through  her  solitudes  : 
So  shrieked  Bagoas,  so  his  cry  was  caught 
And  voiced  from  camp  to  camp,  from  peak  to  peak. 
Then  a  great  silence  fell  upon  the  camps, 
And  all  the  people  stood  like  blocks  of  stone 
In  a  deserted  quarry ;  then  a  voice 
Blown  through  a  trumpet  clamored  :  He  is  dead ! 
The  Prince  is  dead  /     The  Hebrew  witch  hath  slain 
Prince  Holof ernes  /    Fly,  Assyrians,  fly  ! 

Upon  the  sounding  of  that  baleful  voice 
A  panic  seized  the  silent  multitude. 
In  white  dismay  from  their  strong  mountain-hold 
They  broke,  and  fled.     As  when  the  high  snows 

melt, 

And  down  the  steep  hill-flanks  in  torrents  flow, 
Not  in  one  flood,  but  in  a  hundred  streams : 
So  to  the  four  winds  spread  the  Asshur  hosts, 
Leaving  their  camels  tethered  at  the  stake, 
Their  brave  tents   standing,  and   their   scattered 

arms. 


354  JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES 

As  the  pent  whirlwind,  breaking  from  its  leash, 

Seizes  upon  the  yellow  desert  sand 

And  hurls  it  in  dark  masses,  cloud  on  cloud, 

So  from  the  gates  of  the  embattled  town 

Leapt  armed  men  upon  the  flying  foe, 

And  hemmed  them  in,  now  on  a  river's  marge, 

Now  on  the  brink  of  some  sheer  precipice, 

Now  in  the  fens,  and  pierced  them  with  their  spears. 

Six  days,  six  nights,  at  point  of  those  red  spears 

The  cohorts  fled ;  then  such  as  knew  not  death 

Found  safety  in  Damascus,  or  beyond 

Sought  refuge,  harried  only  by  their  fears. 

Thus  through  God's  grace,  that  nerved  a  gentle 

hand 

Not  shaped  to  wield  the  deadly  blade  of  war, 
The  tombs  and  temples  of  Judea  were  saved. 
And  love  and  honor  waited  from  that  hour 
Upon  the  steps  of  Judith.     And  the  years 
Came  to  her  lightly,  dwelling  in  her  house 
In  her  own  city ;  lightly  came  the  years, 
Touching  the  raven  tresses  with  their  snow. 
Many  desired  her,  but  she  put  them  by 
With  sweet  denial :  where  Manasseh  slept 
In  his  strait  sepulchre,  there  slept  her  heart. 
And  there  beside  him,  in  the  barley-field 
Nigh  unto  Dothaim,  they  buried  her. 


INTERLUDES 


PRESCIENCE 

THE  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky, 
The  sun  was  low  in  the  west, 
And  my  betrothed  and  I 

In  the  churchyard  paused  to  rest  - 
Happy  maiden  and  lover, 
Dreaming  the  old  dream  over : 
The  light  winds  wandered  by, 

And  robins  chirped  from  the  nest. 

And  lo !  in  the  meadow-sweet 

Was  the  grave  of  a  little  child, 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet, 
And  the  ivy  running  wild  — 
Tangled  ivy  and  clover 
Folding  it  over  and  over : 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet 
Was  the  little  mound  up-piled. 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears, 
She  shrank  and  clung  to  me, 
355 


356  INTERLUDES 

And  her  eyes  were  rilled  with  tears 
For  a  sorrow  I  did  not  see  : 

Lightly  the  winds  were  blowing, 
Softly  her  tears  were  flowing  — 
Tears  for  the  unknown  years 
And  a  sorrow  that  was  to  be ! 


MEMORY 

MY  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things, 
Like  dates  of  wars  and  deaths  of  kings, 
And  yet  recalls  the  very  hour  — 
'T  was  noon  by  yonder  village  tower, 
And  on  the  last  blue  noon  in  May  — 
The  wind  came  briskly  up  this  way, 
Crisping  the  brook  beside  the  road ; 
Then,  pausing  here,  set  down  its  load 
Of  pine-scents,  and  shook  listlessly 
Two  petals  from  that  wild-rose  tree. 


A   MOOD 

A  BLIGHT,  a  gloom,  I  know  not  what,  has  crept 

upon  my  gladness  — 
Some  vague,  remote  ancestral  touch  of  sorrow,  or 

of  madness ; 


INTERLUDES  357 

A  fear  that  is  not  fear,  a  pain  that  has  not  pain's 
insistence ; 

A  sense  of  longing,  or  of  loss,  in  some  foregone 
existence  ; 

A  subtle  hurt  that  never  pen  has  writ  nor  tongue 
has  spoken  — 

Such  hurt  perchance  as  Nature  feels  when  a  blos- 
somed bough  is  broken. 


ACT  V 

[Midnight] 

FIRST,  two  white  arms  that  held  him  very  close, 

And  ever  closer  as  he  drew  him  back 

Reluctantly,  the  unbound  golden  hair 

A  thousand  delicate  fibres  reaching  out 

Still  to  detain  him ;  then  some  twenty  steps 

Of  iron  staircase  winding  round  and  down, 

And  ending  in  a  narrow  gallery  hung 

With  Gobelin  tapestries  —  Andromeda 

Rescued  by  Perseus,  and  the  sleek  Diana 

With  her  nymphs  bathing ;  at  the  farther  end 

A  door  that  gave  upon  a  starlit  grove 

Of  citron  and  dwarf  cypress ;  then  a  path 

As  bleached  as  moonlight,  with  the  shadow  of  leaves 


358  INTERLUDES 

Stamped  black  upon  it ;  next  a  vine-clad  length 
Of  solid  masonry ;  and  last  of  all 
A  Gothic  archway  packed  with  night,  and  then- 
A  sudden  gleaming  dagger  through  his  heart. 


GUILIELMUS  REX 

THE  folk  who  lived  in  Shakespeare's  day 
And  saw  that  gentle  figure  pass 
By  London  Bridge,  his  frequent  way  — 
They  little  knew  what  man  he  was. 

The  pointed  beard,  the  courteous  mien, 
The  equal  port  to  high  and  low, 
All  this  they  saw  or  might  have  seen  — 
But  not  the  light  behind  the  brow ! 

The  doublet's  modest  gray  or  brown, 
The  slender  sword-hilt's  plain  device, 
What  sign  had  these  for  prince  or  clown  ? 
Few  turned,  or  none,  to  scan  him  twice. 

Yet  't  was  the  king  of  England's  kings  ! 
The  rest  with  all  their  pomps  and  trains 
Are  mouldered,  half-remembered  things  — 
Tis  he  alone  that  lives  and  reigns ! 


INTERLUDES  359 

A  DEDICATION 

TAKE  these  rhymes  into  thy  grace, 
Since  they  are  of  thy  begetting, 

Lady,  that  dost  make  each  place 
Where  thou  art  a  jewel's  setting. 

Some  such  glamour  lend  this  Book : 

Let  it  be  thy  poet's  wages 
That  henceforth  thy  gracious  look 

Lies  reflected  on  its  pages. 


"PILLARED    ARCH    AND    SCULPTURED 
TOWER" 

PILLARED  arch  and  sculptured  tower 
Of  Ilium  have  had  their  hour ; 
The  dust  of  many  a  king  is  blown 
On  the  winds  from  zone  to  zone ; 
Many  a  warrior  sleeps  unknown. 
Time  and  Death  hold  each  in  thrall, 
Yet  is  Love  the  lord  of  all ; 
Still  does  Helen's  beauty  stir 
Because  a  poet  sang  of  her ! 


36o  INTERLUDES 

THRENODY 

H.  H.    B. 
I 

UPON  your  hearse  this  flower  I  lay. 
Brief  be  your  sleep  !     You  shall  be  known 
When  lesser  men  have  had  their  day ; 
Fame  blossoms  where  true  seed  is  sown, 
Or  soon  or  late,  let  Time  wrong  what  it  may. 


Unvexed  by  any  dream  of  fame, 

You  smiled,  and  bade  the  world  pass  by ; 

But  I  —  I  turned,  and  saw  a  name 

Shaping  itself  against  the  sky  — 

White  star  that  rose  amid  the  battle's  flame ! 


in 

Brief  be  your  sleep,  for  I  would  see 
Your  laurels  —  ah,  how  trivial  now 
To  him  must  earthly  laurel  be 
Who  wears  the  amaranth  on  his  brow  ! 
How  vain  the  voices  of  mortality ! 


INTERLUDES  361 

SESTET 

(Sent  to  a  friend  with  a  volume  of  Tennyson) 

WOULDST  know  the  clash  of  knightly  steel  on  steel  ? 

Or  list  the  throstle  singing  loud  and  clear  ? 

Or  walk  at  twilight  by  some  haunted  mere 

In  Surrey  ;  or  in  throbbing  London  feel 

Life's    pulse    at    highest  —  hark,     the     minster's 

peal!  .  .  . 
Turn  but  the  page,  that  various  world  is  here ! 


NECROMANCY 

THROUGH  a  chance  fissure  of  the  churchyard  wall 
A  creeping  vine  puts  forth  a  single  spray, 
At  whose  slim  end  a  starry  blossom  droops 
Full  to  the  soft  vermilion  of  a  rose 
That  reaches  up  on  tiptoe  for  the  kiss. 
Not  them  the  wren  disturbs,  nor  the  loud  bee 
That  buzzes  homeward  with  his  load  of  sweets ; 
And  thus  they  linger,  flowery  lip  to  lip, 
Heedless  of  all,  in  rapturous  mute  embrace. 
Some  necromancy  here !     These  two,  I  think, 
Were  once  unhappy  lovers  upon  earth. 


362  INTERLUDES 

FOREVER   AND   A   DAY 

SONG 


I  LITTLE  know  or  care 

If  the  blackbird  on  the  bough 

Is  rilling  all  the  air 

With  his  soft  crescendo  now ; 
For  she  is  gone  away, 
And  when  she  went  she  took 
The  springtime  in  her  look, 
The  peachblow  on  her  cheek, 
The  laughter  from  the  brook, 
The  blue  from  out  the  May  — 
And  what  she  calls  a  week 
Is  forever  and  a  day  ! 


ii 

It 's  little  that  I  mind 

How  the  blossoms,  pink  or  white, 

At  every  touch  of  wind 

Fall  a-trembling  with  delight  j 
For  in  the  leafy  lane, 
Beneath  the  garden-boughs, 
And  through  the  silent  house 
One  thing  alone  I  seek. 


INTERLUDES  363 

Until  she  come  again 
The  May  is  not  the  May, 
And  what  she  calls  a  week 
Is  forever  and  a  day  ! 


A  TOUCH   OF   NATURE 

WHEN  first  the  crocus  thrusts  its  point  of  gold 
Up  through  the  still  snow-drifted  garden  mould, 
And  folded  green  things  in  dim  woods  unclose 
Their  crinkled  spears,  a  sudden  tremor  goes 
Into  my  veins  and  makes  me  kith  and  kin 
To  every  wild-born  thing  that  thrills  and  blows. 
Sitting  beside  this  crumbling  sea-coal  fire, 
Here  in  the  city's  ceaseless  roar  and  din, 
Far  from  the  brambly  paths  I  used  to  know, 
Far  from  the  rustling  brooks  that  slip  and  shine 
Where  the  Neponset  alders  take  their  glow, 
I  share  the  tremulous  sense  of  bud  and  brier 
And  inarticulate  ardors  of  the  vine. 


"I'LL   NOT   CONFER   WITH   SORROW" 

I  'LL  not  confer  with  Sorrow 

Till  to-morrow ; 
But  Joy  shall  have  her  way 

This  very  day. 


364  INTERLUDES 

Ho,  eglantine  and  cresses 
For  her  tresses  !  — 

Let  Care,  the  beggar,  wait 
Outside  the  gate. 

Tears  if  you  will  —  but  after 
Mirth  and  laughter ; 

Then,  folded  hands  on  breast 
And  endless  rest. 


IN  THE  BELFRY  OF  THE  NIEUWE  KERK 

(AMSTERDAM) 

NOT  a  breath  in  the  stifled,  dingy  street ! 

On  the  Stadhuis  tiles  the  sun's  deep  glow 

Lies  like  a  kind  of  golden  snow ; 

In  the  square  one  almost  sees  the  heat. 

The  mottled  tulips  over  there 

By  the  open  casement  pant  for  air. 

Grave,  portly  burghers,  with  their  vrouws, 

Go  hat  in  hand  to  cool  their  brows. 

But  high  in  the  fretted  steeple,  where 
The  sudden  chimes  burst  forth  and  scare 
The  lazy  rooks  from  the  belfry  rail, 
Up  here,  behold  !  there  blows  a  gale  — 


INTERLUDES 

Such  a  wind  as  bends  the  forest  tree, 
And  rocks  the  great  ships  out  at  sea ! 

Plain  simple  folk,  who  come  and  go 
On  humble  levels  of  life  below, 
Little  dream  of  the  gales  that  smite 
Mortals  dwelling  upon  the  height. 


NO   SONGS   IN   WINTER 

THE  sky  is  gray  as  gray  may  be, 
There  is  no  bird  upon  the  bough, 
There  is  no  leaf  on  vine  or  tree. 

In  the  Neponset  marshes  now 
Willow-stems,  rosy  in  the  wind, 
Shiver  with  hidden  sense  of  snow. 

So  too  't  is  winter  in  my  mind, 

No  light-winged  fancy  comes  and  stays : 

A  season  churlish  and  unkind. 

Slow  creep  the  hours,  slow  creep  the  days, 
The  black  ink  crusts  upon  the  pen  — 
Wait  till  the  bluebirds  and  the  jays 
And  golden  orioles  come  again  ! 


366  INTERLUDES 

A   PARABLE 

ONE  went  East,  and  one  went  West 
Across  the  wild  sea-foam, 

And  both  were  on  the  self-same  quest. 

Now  one  there  was  who  cared  for  naught, 
So  stayed  at  home  : 

Yet  of  the  three  Jt  was  only  he 

Who  reached  the  goal  —  by  him  unsought. 


INSOMNIA 

SLUMBER,  hasten  down  this  way, 
And,  ere  midnight  dies, 

Silence  lay  upon  my  lips, 
Darkness  on  my  eyes. 

Send  me  a  fantastic  dream  ; 

Fashion  me  afresh ; 
Into  some  celestial  thing 

Change  this  mortal  flesh. 

Well  I  know  one  may  not  choose ; 

One  is  helpless  still 
In  the  purple  realm  of  Sleep : 

Use  me  as  you  will. 


INTERLUDES 

Let  me  be  a  frozen  pine 
In  dead  glacier  lands  ; 

Let  me  pant,  a  leopard  stretched 
On  the  Libyan  sands. 

Silver  fin  or  scarlet  wing 
Grant  me,  either  one  \ 

Sink  me  deep  in  emerald  glooms, 
Lift  me  to  the  sun. 

Or  of  me  a  gargoyle  make, 
Face  of  ape  or  gnome, 

Such  as  frights  the  tavern-boor 
Reeling  drunken  home. 

Work  on  me  your  own  caprice, 

Give  me  any  shape  ; 
Only,  Slumber,  from  myself 

Let  myself  escape  ! 


SEEMING   DEFEAT 

THE  woodland  silence,  one  time  stirred 
By  the  soft  pathos  of  some  passing  bird, 

Is  not  the  same  it  was  before. 
The  spot  where  once,  unseen,  a  flower 


368  INTERLUDES 

Has  held  its  fragile  chalice  to  the  shower, 
Is  different  for  evermore. 
Unheard,  unseen 
A  spell  has  been  ! 

O  thou  that  breathest  year  by  year 
Music  that  falls  unheeded  on  the  ear, 

Take  heart,  fate  has  not  baffled  thee ! 
Thou  that  with  tints  of  earth  and  skies 
Fillest  thy  canvas  for  unseeing  eyes, 
Thou  hast  not  labored  futilely. 
Unheard,  unseen 
A  spell  has  been  ! 


"LIKE  CRUSOE,  WALKING  BY  THE 
LONELY  STRAND" 

LIKE  Crusoe,  walking  by  the  lonely  strand 
And  seeing  a  human  footprint  on  the  sand, 
Have  I  this  day  been  startled,  finding  here, 
Set  in  brown  mould  and  delicately  clear, 
Spring's  footprint  —  the  first  crocus  of  the  year ! 
O  sweet  invasion  !     Farewell  solitude  ! 
Soon  shall  wild  creatures  of  the  field  and  wood 
Flock  from  all  sides  with  much  ado  and  stir, 
And  make  of  me  most  willing  prisoner ! 


INTERLUDES  369 

KNOWLEDGE 

KNOWLEDGE  —  who  hath  it?     Nay,  not  thou, 
Pale  student,  pondering  thy  futile  lore  ! 
After  a  space  it  shall  be  thine,  as  now 
'T  is  his  whose  funeral  passes  at  thy  door. 
Couldst  thou  but  see  with  those  deep-sealed  eyes, 
What  lore  were  thine  !     The  Dead  alone  are  wise. 


THE   LETTER 

EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL,    DIED    FEBRUARY    27,    1887 

I  HELD  his  letter  in  my  hand, 

And  even  while  I  read 
The  lightning  flashed  across  the  land 

The  word  that  he  was  dead. 

How  strange  it  seemed  !     His  living  voice 

Was  speaking  from  the  page 
Those  courteous  phrases,  tersely  choice, 

Light-hearted,  witty,  sage. 

I  wondered  what  it  was  that  died ! 
The  man  himself  was  here, 


370  INTERLUDES 

His  modesty,  his  scholar's  pride, 
His  soul  serene  and  clear. 

These  neither  death  nor  time  shall  dim, 
Still  this  sad  thing  must  be  — 

Henceforth  I  may  not  speak  to  him, 
Though  he  can  speak  to  me  ! 


UIN  YOUTH,  BESIDE  THE  LONELY  SEA" 

IN  youth,  beside  the  lonely  sea, 
Voices  and  visions  came  to  me. 

Titania  and  her  furtive  broods 
Were  my  familiars  in  the  woods. 

From  every  flower  that  broke  in  flame 
Some  half-articulate  whisper  came. 

In  every  wind  I  felt  the  stir 
Of  some  celestial  messenger. 

Later,  amid  the  city's  din 

And  toil  and  wealth  and  want  and  sin, 

They  followed  me  from  street  to  street, 
The  dreams  that  made  my  boyhood  sweet. 


INTERLUDES  371 

As  in  the  silence-haunted  glen, 
So,  mid  the  crowded  ways  of  men, 

Strange  lights  my  errant  fancy  led, 
Strange  watchers  watched  beside  my  bed. 

Ill  fortune  had  no  shafts  for  me 
In  this  aerial  company. 

Now  one  by  one  the  visions  fly, 
And  one  J)y  one  the  voices  die ; 

More  distantly  the  accents  ring, 
More  frequent  the  receding  wing. 

Full  dark  shall  be  the  days  in  store, 
When  voice  and  vision  come  no  more ! 


-'GREAT   CAPTAIN,   GLORIOUS   IN   OUR 
WARS  " 

GREAT  Captain,  glorious  in  our  wars  — 
No  meed  of  praise  we  hold  from  him ; 
About  his  brow  we  wreathe  the  stars 
The  coming  ages  shall  not  dim. 


372  INTERLUDES 

The  cloud-sent  man  !     Was  it  not  he 
That  from  the  hand  of  adverse  fate 
Snatched  the  white  flower  of  victory  ? 
He  spoke  no  word,  but  saved  the  State. 

Yet  History,  as  she  brooding  bends 
Above  the  tablet  on  her  knee, 
The  impartial  stylus  half  suspends, 
And  fain  would  blot  the  cold  decree : 

"The  iron  hand  and  sleepless  care 
That  stayed  disaster  scarce  availed 
To  serve  him  when  he  came  to  wear 
The  civic  laurel :  there  he  failed." 

Who  runs  may  read  ;  but  nothing  mars 
That  nobler  record  unforgot. 
Great  Captain,  glorious  in  our  wars  — 
All  else  the  heart  remembers  not. 


THE  WINTER  ROBIN 

Sursum  corda 

Now  is  that  sad  time  of  year 
When  no  flower  or  leaf  is  here ; 
When  in  misty  Southern  ways 


INTERLUDES  373 

Oriole  and  jay  have  flown, 
And  of  all  sweet  birds,  alone 
The  robin  stays. 

So  give  thanks  at  Christmas-tide ; 
Hopes  of  springtime  yet  abide  ! 
See,  in  spite  of  darksome  days, 
Wind  and  rain  and  bitter  chill, 
Snow,  and  sleet-hung  branches,  still 
The  robin  stays ! 


A   REFRAIN 

HIGH  in  a  tower  she  sings, 

I,  passing  by  beneath, 
Pause  and  listen,  and  catch 

These  words  of  passionate  breath  — 
"  Asphodel,  flower  of  Life ;    amaranth,  flower    of 
Death!" 

Sweet  voice,  sweet  unto  tears  ! 
What  is  this  that  she  saith  ? 
Poignant,  mystical  —  hark  ! 

Again  with  passionate  breath  — 
"Asphodel,  flower  of  Life;    amaranth,  flower    of 
Death!" 


374  INTERLUDES 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEA 

IN  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 
I  hear  the  voice  of  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 
It  seems  to  say  to  me  — 
Mine  are  the  winds  above, 
Mine  are  the  caves  below, 
Mine  are  the  dead  of  yesterday 
And  the  dead  of  long  ago ! 

And  I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 
From  the  lovely  Gloucester  shore, 
I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 
And  came  back  nevermore  ; 
My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 
And  my  heart  is  numb  with  woe  — 
It  seems  as  if  't  were  yesterday, 
And  it  all  was  long  ago ! 


ART 

"  LET  art  be  all  in  all,"  one  time  I  said, 
And  straightway  stirred  the  hypercritic  gall. 
I  said  not,  "  Let  technique  be  all  in  all," 
But  art  —  a  wider  meaning.     Worthless,  dead 


INTERLUDES  375 

The  shell  without  its  pearl,  the  corpse  of  things  — 
Mere  words  are,  till  the  spirit  lend  them  wings. 
The  poet  who  wakes  no  soul  within  his  lute 
Falls  short  of  art :  't  were  better  he  were  mute. 

The  workmanship  wherewith  the  gold  is  wrought 

Adds  yet  a  richness  to  the  richest  gold ; 

Who  lacks  the  art  to  shape  his  thought,  I  hold, 

Were  little  poorer  if  he  lacked  the  thought. 

The  -statue's  slumber  were  unbroken  still 

In  the  dull  marble,  had  the  hand  no  skill. 

Disparage  not  the  magic  touch  that  gives 

The  formless  thought  the  grace  whereby  it  lives ! 


IMOGEN 

LEONATUS  POSTHUMUS  speaks: 

SORROW,  make  a  verse  for  me 

That  shall  breathe  all  human  grieving ; 
Let  it  be  love's  exequy, 

And  the  knell  of  all  believing ! 

Let  it  such  sweet  pathos  have 

As  a  violet  on  a  grave, 

Or  a  dove's  moan  when  his  mate 
Leaves  the  new  nest  desolate. 

Sorrow,  Sorrow,  by  this  token, 
Braid  a  wreath  for  Beauty's  head.  .  .  . 


376  INTERLUDES 

Valley-lilies,  one  or  two, 
Should  be  woven  with  the  rue. 
Sorrow,  Sorrow,  all  is  spoken  — 
She  is  dead  ! 


A  BRIDAL  MEASURE 

FOR   S.  F. 

GIFTS  they  sent  her  manifold, 
Diamonds  and  pearls  and  gold. 
One  there  was  among  the  throng 
Had  not  Midas'1  touch  at  need  : 
He  against  a  sylvan  reed 
Set  his  lips  and  breathed  a  song. 

Bid  bright  Flora,  as  she  comes, 
Snatch  a  spray  of  orange  blooms 
For  a  maiden's  hair. 

Let  the  Hours  their  aprons  fill 
With  mignonette  and  daffodil, 
And  all  that 's  fair. 

For  her  bosom  fetch  the  rose 

That  is  rarest  — 
Not  that  either  these  or  those 
Could  by  any  fortune  be 


INTERLUDES  377 

Ornaments  to  such  as  she  ; 
They  '11  but  show,  when  she  is  dressed, 

She  is  fairer  than  the  fairest 
And  out-betters  what  is  best ! 


CRADLE  SONG 


ERE  the  moon  begins  to  rise 

Or  a  star  to  shine, 
All  the  bluebells  close  their  eyes  — 

So  close  thine, 

Thine,  dear,  thine ! 

n 

Birds  are  sleeping  in  the  nest 

On  the  swaying  bough, 
Thus,  against  the  mother-breast  — 

So  sleep  thou, 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou ! 


SANTO   DOMINGO 

AFTER  long  days  of  angry  sea  and  sky, 
The  magic  isle  rose  up  from  out  the  blue 


378  INTERLUDES 

Like  a  mirage,  vague,  dimly  seen  at  first, 

At  first  seen  dimly  through  the  mist,  and  then  — 

Groves  of  acacia  ;  slender  leaning  stems 

Of  palm-trees  weighted  with  their  starry  fronds  ; 

Airs  that,  at  dawn,  had  from  their  slumber  risen 

In  bowers  of  spices  ;  between  shelving  banks, 

A  river  through  whose  limpid  crystal  gleamed, 

Four  fathoms  down,  the  silvery,  rippled  sand ; 

Upon  the  bluff  a  square  red  tower,  and  roofs 

Of  cocoa-fibre  lost  among  the  boughs ; 

Hard  by,  a  fort  with  crumbled  parapet. 

These  took  the  fancy  captive  ere  we  reached 

The  longed-for  shores  ;  then  swiftly  in  our  thought 

We  left  behind  us  the  New  World,  and  trod 

The  Old,  'and  in  a  sudden  vision  saw 

Columbus  wandering  from  court  to  court, 

A  mendicant,  with  kingdoms  in  his  hands. 


AT   A   GRAVE 

VALOR,  love,  undoubting  trust, 
Patience,  and  fidelity 
Lie  beneath  this  carven  stone. 
If  the  end  of  these  be  dust, 
And  their  doom  oblivion, 
Then  is  life  a  mockery. 


INTERLUDES  379 


A   PETITION 

To  spring  belongs  the  violet,  and  the  blown 
Spice  of  the  roses  let  the  summer  own. 
Grant  me  this  favor,  Muse  —  all  else  withhold  — 
That  I  may  not  write  verse  when  I  am  old. 

And  yet  I  pray  you,  Muse,  delay  the  time ! 

Be  not  too  ready  to  deny  me  rhyme ; 

And  when  the  hour  strikes,  as  it  must,  dear  Muse, 

I  beg  you  very  gently  break  the  news. 


XXVIII   SONNETS 


i 

INVITA   MINERVA 

NOT  of  desire  alone  is  music  born, 
Not  till  the  Muse  wills  is  our  passion  crowned  ; 
Unsought  she  comes  ;  if  sought,  but  seldom  found, 
Repaying  thus  our  longing  with  her  scorn. 
Hence  is  it  poets  often  are  forlorn, 
In  super-subtle  chains  of  silence  bound, 
And  mid  the  crowds  that  compass  them  around 
Still  dwell  in  isolation  night  and  morn, 
With  knitted  brow  and  cheek  all  passion-pale 
Showing  the  baffled  purpose  of  the  mind. 
Hence  is  it  I,  that  find  no  prayers  avail 
To  move  my  Lyric  Mistress  to  be  kind, 
Have  stolen  away  into  this  leafy  dale 
Drawn  by  the  flutings  of  the  silvery  wind. 
381 


382  XXVIII  SONNETS 

II 

FREDERICKSBURG 

THE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 
And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow.  .  .  . 
'T  was  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled  ; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen  !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg ;  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
With  sudden  conflagration  ;  on  yon  height, 
Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath ; 
A  signal  rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath  : 
Hark  !  —  the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 
Hark  !  —  the  black  squadrons  wheeling  down  to 
Death ! 


XXVIII  SONNETS  383 

III 
BY  THE   POTOMAC 

THE  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 
By  the  Potomac  ;  and  the  crisp  ground-flower 
Tilts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower ; 
The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 
Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 
Hark,  what  a  burst  of  music  from  yon  bower  !  — 
The  Southern  nightingale  that  hour  by  hour 
In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 
Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 
With  what  sweet  voice  of  bird  and  rivulet 
And  drowsy  murmur  of  the  rustling  leat 
Would  Nature  soothe  us,  bidding  us  forget 
The  awful  crime  of  this  distracted  land 
And  al)  our  heavy  heritage  of  grief. 


384  XXVIII  SONNETS 


IV 

PURSUIT  AND   POSSESSION 

WHEN  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  pursuit, 
What  life,  what  glorious  eagerness  it  is  ; 
Then  mark  how  full  possession  falls  from  this, 
How  fairer  seems  the  blossom  than  the  fruit  — 
I  am  perplexed,  and  often  stricken  mute 
Wondering  which  attained  the  higher  bliss, 
The  winged  insect,  or  the  chrysalis 
It  thrust  aside  with  unreluctant  foot. 
Spirit  of  verse,  that  still  elud'st  my  art, 
Thou  uncaught  rapture,  thou  swift-fleeting  fire, 
O  let  me  follow  thee  with  hungry  heart 
If  beauty's  full  possession  kill  desire  ! 
Still  flit  away  in  moonlight,  rain,  and  dew, 
Will-of-the-wisp,  that  I  may  still  pursue ! 


XXVIII  SONNETS  385 


MIRACLES 

SICK  of  myself  and  all  that  keeps  the  light 
Of  the  wide  heavens  away  from  me  and  mine, 
I  climb  this  ledge,  and  by  this  wind-swept  pine 
Lingering,  watch  the  coming  of  the  night : 
'Tis  ever  a  new  wonder  to  my  sight. 
Men  look  to  God  for  some  mysterious  sign, 
For  other  stars  than  such  as  nightly  shine, 
For  some  unwonted  symbol  of  His  might. 
Wouldst  see  a  miracle  not  less  than  those 
The  Master  wrought  of  old  in  Galilee  ? 
Come  watch  with  me  the  azure  turn  to  rose 
In  yonder  West,  the  changing  pageantry, 
The  fading  alps  and  archipelagoes, 
And  spectral  cities  of  the  sunset-sea. 


336  XXVIII  SONNETS 


VI 


"ENAMORED   ARCHITECT   OF   AIRY 
RHYME" 

ENAMORED  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt,  heed  not  what  each  man  says : 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamers'  ways, 

Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time ; 

Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  thy 

days; 

But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  Wondersmith,  O  worker  in  sublime 
And  heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all ; 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given  ; 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 
Dissolve,  and  vanish  —  take  thyself  no  shame. 
They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven. 


XXVIII  SONNETS 


VII 

EIDOLONS 

THOSE  forms  we  fancy  shadows,  those  strange  lights 

That  flash  on  lone  morasses,  the  quick  wind 

That  smites  us  by  the  roadside  are  the  Night's 

Innumerable  children.     Unconfined 

By  shroud  or  coffin,  disembodied  souls, 

Still  on  probation,  steal  into  air 

From  ancient  battlefields  and  churchyard  knolls 

At  the  day's  ending.     Pestilence  and  despair 

Fly  with  the  startled  bats  at  set  of  sun  ; 

And  wheresoever  murders  have  been  done, 

In  crowded  palaces  or  lonely  woods, 

Where'er  a  soul  has  sold  itself  and  lost 

Its  high  inheritance,  there,  hovering,  broods 

Some  mute,  invisible,  accursed  ghost. 


388  XXVIII  SONNETS 

VIII 
AT   BAY   RIDGE,   LONG   ISLAND 

PLEASANT  it  is  to  lie  amid  the  grass 

Under  these  shady  locusts,  half  the  day, 

Watching  the  ships  reflected  on  the  Bay, 

Topmast  and  shroud,  as  in  a  wizard's  glass ; 

To  note  the  swift  and  meagre  swallow  pass, 

Brushing  the  dewdrops  from  the  lilac  spray ; 

Or  else  to  sit  and  while  the  noon  away 

With  some  old  love-tale  ;  or  to  muse,  alas ! 

On  Dante  in  his  exile,  sorrow-worn ; 

On  Milton,  blind,  with  inward-seeing  eyes 

That  made  their  own  deep  midnight  and  rich  morn  ; 

To  think  that  now,  beneath  the  Italian  skies, 

In  such  clear  air  as  this,  by  Tiber's  wave, 

Daisies  are  trembling  over  Keats's  grave. 


XXVIII  SONNETS 


IX 

"EVEN   THIS   WILL  PASS  AWAY" 

TOUCHED  with  the  delicate  green  of  early  May, 

Or  later,  when  the  rose  uplifts  her  face, 

The  world  hangs  glittering  in  starry  space, 

Fresh  as  a  jewel  found  but  yesterday. 

And  yet  't  is  very  old  ;  what  tongue  may  say 

How  old  it  is  ?     Race  follows  upon  race, 

Forgetting  and  forgotten  ;  in  their  place 

Sink  tower  and  temple  ;  nothing  long  may  stay. 

We  build  on  tombs,  and  live  our  day,  and  die  ; 

From  out  our  dust  new  towers  and  temples  start  ; 

Our  very  name  becomes  a  mystery. 

What  cities  no  man  ever  heard  of  lie 

Under  the  glacier,  in  the  mountain's  heart, 

In  violet  glooms  beneath  the  moaning  sea  ! 


390  XXVIII  SONNETS 


EGYPT 

FANTASTIC  sleep  is  busy  with  my  eyes  : 

I  seem  in  some  waste  solitude  to  stand 

Once  ruled  of  Cheops  ;  upon  either  hand 

A  dark  illimitable  desert  lies, 

Sultry  and  still  —  a  zone  of  mysteries. 

A  wide-browed  Sphinx,  half  buried  in  the  sand, 

With  orbless  sockets  stares  across  the  land, 

The  wofulest  thing  beneath  these  brooding  skies 

Save  that  loose  heap  of  bleached  bones,  that  lie 

Where  haply  some  poor  Bedouin  crawled  to  die. 

Lo !  while  I  gaze,  beyond  the  vast  sand-sea 

The  nebulous  clouds  are  downward  slowly  drawn, 

And  one  bleared  star,  faint  glimmering  like  a  bee, 

Is  shut  in  the  rosy  outstretched  hand  of  Dawn. 


"EGYPT."     Page  390. 


XXVIII  SONNETS  391 

XI 

AT   STRATFORD-UPON-AVON 

THUS  spake  his  dust  (so  seemed  it  as  I  read 
The  words)  :   Good  f rend,  for  Jesvs*  sakeforbeare 
(Poor  ghost !)   To  digg  the  dvst  enchased  heare  — 
Then  came  the  malediction  on  the  head 
Of  whoso  dare  disturb  the  sacred  dead. 
Outside  the  mavis  whistled  strong  and  clear, 
And,  touched  with  the  sweet  glamour  of  the  year, 
The  winding  Avon  murmured  in  its  bed. 
But  in  the  solemn  Stratford  church  the  air 
Was  chill  and  dank,  and  on  the  foot-worn  tomb 
The  evening  shadows  deepened  momently. 
Then  a  great  awe  fell  on  me,  standing  there, 
As  if  some  speechless  presence  in  the  gloom 
Was  hovering,  and  fain  would  speak  with  me. 


392  XXVIII  SONNETS 

xn 

WITH   THREE   FLOWERS 

HEREWITH   I   send  you    three    pressed   withered 

flowers  : 

This  one  was  white,  with  golden  star ;  this,  blue 
As  Capri's  cave ;  that,  purple  and  shot  through 
With  sunset-orange.     Where  the  Duomo  towers 
In  diamond  air,  and  under  pendent  bowers 
The  Arno  glides,  this  faded  violet  grew 
On  Lander's  grave  ;  from  Lander's  heart  it  drew 
Its  clouded  azure  in  the  long  spring  hours. 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramid 
Of  Caius  Cestius  was  the  daisy  found, 
White  as  the  soul  of  Keats  in  Paradise. 
The  pansy  —  there  were  hundreds  of  them  hid 
In  the  thick  grass  that  folded  Shelley's  mound, 
Guarding  his  ashes  with  most  lovely  eyes. 


XXVIII  SONNETS  393 

XIII 

THE   LORELEI 

YONDER  we  see  it  from  the  steamer's  deck, 
The  haunted  Mountain  of  the  Lorelei  — 
The  hanging  crags  sharp-cut  against  a  sky 
Clear  as  a  sapphire  without  flaw  or  fleck. 
'T  was  here  the  Siren  lay  in  wait  to  wreck 
The  fisher-lad.     At  dusk,  as  he  rowed  by, 
Perchance  he  heard  her  tender  amorous  cry, 
And,  seeing  the  wondrous  whiteness  of  her  neck, 
Perchance  would  halt,  and  lean  towards  the  shore ; 
Then  she  by  that  soft  magic  which  she  had 
Would  lure  him,  and  in  gossamers  of  her  hair, 
Gold  upon  gold,  would  wrap  him  o'er  and  o'er, 
Wrap  him,  and  sing  to  him,  and  drive  him  mad, 
Then  drag  him  down  to  no  man  knoweth  where. 


394  XXVIII  SONNETS 

XIV 

SLEEP 

WHEN  to  soft  sleep  we  give  ourselves  away, 

And  in  a  dream  as  in  a  fairy  bark 

Drift  on  and  on  through  the  enchanted  dark 

To  purple  daybreak  —  little  thought  we  pay 

To  that  sweet  bitter  world  we  know  by  day. 

We  are  clean  quit  of  it,  as  is  a  lark 

So  high  in  heaven  no  human  eye  can  mark 

The  thin  swift  pinion  cleaving  through  the  gray. 

Till  we  awake  ill  fate  can  do  no  ill, 

The  resting  heart  shall  not  take  up  again 

The  heavy  load  that  yet  must  make  it  bleed ; 

For  this  brief  space  the  loud  world's  voice  is  still, 

No  faintest  echo  of  it  brings  us  pain. 

How  will  it  be  when  we  shall  sleep  indeed  ? 


XXVIII  SONNETS  3Q5 

XV 

THORWALDSEN 

NOT  in  the  fabled  influence  of  some  star, 

Benign  or  evil,  do  our  fortunes  lie ; 

We  are  the  arbiters  of  destiny, 

Lords  of  the  life  we  either  make  or  mar. 

We  are  our  own  impediment  and  bar 

To  noble  endings.     With  distracted  eye 

We  let  the  golden  moment  pass  us  by, 

Time's  foolish  spendthrifts,  searching  wide  and  far 

For  what  lies  close  at  hand.     To  serve  our  turn 

We  ask  fair  wind  and  favorable  tide. 

From  the  dead  Danish  sculptor  let  us  learn 

To  make  Occasion,  not  to  be  denied  : 

Against  the  sheer  precipitous  mountain-side 

Thorwaldsen  carved  his  Lion  at  Lucerne. 


396  XXVIII  SONNETS 


XVI 

AN   ALPINE   PICTURE 

STAND  here  and  look,  and  softly  draw  your  breath 
Lest  the  dread  avalanche  come  crashing  down ! 
How  many  leagues  away  is  yonder  town 
Set  flower-wise  in  the  valley  ?     Far  beneath 
Our  feet  lies  summer ;  here  a  realm  of  death, 
Where  never  flower  has  blossomed  nor  bird  flown. 
The  ancient  water-courses  are  all  strown 
With  drifts  of  snow,  fantastic  wreath  on  wreath  ; 
And  peak  on  peak  against  the  stainless  blue 
The  Alps  like  towering  campanili  stand, 
Wondrous,  with  pinnacles  of  frozen  rain, 
Silvery,  crystal,  like  the  prism  in  hue. 
O  tell  me,  love,  if  this  be  Switzerland  — 
Or  is  it  but  the  frost-work  on  the  pane  ? 


XXVIII  SONNETS  397 

XVII 

TO   L.    T.   IN   FLORENCE 

You  by  the  Arno  shape  your  marble  dream, 
Under  the  cypress  and  the  olive  trees, 
While  I,  this  side  the  wild  wind-beaten  seas, 
Unrestful  by  the  Charles's  placid  stream, 
Long  once  again  to  catch  the  golden  gleam 
Of  Brunelleschi's  dome,  and  lounge  at  ease 
In  those  pleached  gardens  and  fair  galleries. 
And  yet  perchance  you  envy  me,  and  deem 
My  star  the  happier,  since  it  holds  me  here. 
Even  so  one  time,  beneath  the  cypresses, 
My  heart  turned  longingly  across  the  sea 
To  these  familiar  fields  and  woodlands  dear, 
And  I  had  given  all  Titian's  goddesses 
For  one  poor  cowslip  or  anemone. 


398  XXVIII  SONNETS 

XVIII 

HENRY    HOWARD   BROWNELL 

THEY  never  crowned  him,  never  dreamed  his  worth, 
And  let  him  go  unlaurelled  to  the  grave  : 
Hereafter  there  are  guerdons  for  the  brave, 
Roses  for  martyrs  who  wear  thorns  on  earth, 
Balms  for  bruised  hearts  that  languish  in  the  dearth 
Of  human  love.     So  let  the  grasses  wave 
Above  him  nameless.     Little  did  he  crave 
Men's  praises  ;  modestly,  with  kindly  mirth, 
Not  sad  nor  bitter,  he  accepted  fate  — 
Drank  deep  of  life,  knew  books,  and  hearts  of  men, 
Cities  and  camps,  and  war's  immortal  woe, 
Yet  bore  through  all  (such  virtue  in  him  sate 
His  spirit  is  not  whiter  now  than  then) 
A  simple,  loyal  nature,  pure  as  snow. 


XXVIII  SONNETS  399 

XIX 

THE   RARITY   OF   GENIUS 

WHILE  yet  my  lip  was  breathing  youth's  first  breath, 

I  all  too  young  to  know  their  deepest  spell, 

I  saw  Medea  and  Phaedra  in  Rachel ; 

Later  I  saw  the  great  Elizabeth. 

Rachel,  Ristori  —  we  shall  speak  with  death 

Ere  we  meet  souls  like  these.     In  one  age  dwell 

Not  many  such  :  a  century  shall  tell 

Its  hundred  beads  before  it  braid  a  wreath 

For  two  so  queenly  foreheads.     If  it  take 

JEons  to  form  a  diamond,  grain  on  grain, 

JEons  to  crystallize  its  fire  and  dew, 

By  what  slow  processes  must  Nature  make 

Her  Shakespeares  and  her  Raffaels?     Great  the 

gain 
If  she  spoil  millions  making  one  or  two. 


400  XXVIII  SONNETS 

XX 

BOOKS   AND   SEASONS 

BECAUSE  the  sky  is  blue ;  because  blithe  May 
Masks  in  the  wren's  note  and  the  lilac's  hue ; 
Because  —  in  fine,  because  the  sky  is  blue 
I  will  read  none  but  piteous  tales  to-day. 
Keep  happy  laughter  till  the  skies  be  gray, 
And  the  sad  season  cypress  wears,  and  rue ; 
Then,  when  the  wind  is  moaning  in  the  flue, 
And  ways  are  dark,  bid  Chaucer  make  us  gay. 
But  now  a  little  sadness !     All  too  sweet 
This  springtide  riot,  this  most  poignant  air, 
This  sensuous  world  of  color  and  perfume. 
So  listen,  love,  while  I  the  woes  repeat 
Of  Hamlet  and  Ophelia,  and  that  pair 
Whose  bridal  bed  was  builded  in  a  tomb. 


XXVIII  SONNETS  401 

XXI 

OUTWARD  BOUND 

I  LEAVE  behind  me  the  elm-shadowed  square 
And  carven  portals  of  the  silent  street, 
And  wander  on  with  listless,  vagrant  feet 
Through  seaward-leading  alleys,  till  the  air 
Smells  of  the  sea,  and  straightway  then  the  care 
Slips  from  my  heart,  and  life  once  more  is  sweet. 
At  the  lane's  ending  lie  the  white-winged  fleet. 
O  restless  Fancy,  whither  wouldst  thou  fare  ? 
Here  are  brave  pinions  that  shall  take  thee  far  — 
Gaunt  hulks  of  Norway ;  ships  of  red  Ceylon ; 
Slim-masted  lovers  of  the  blue  Azores  ! 
'T  is  but  an  instant  hence  to  Zanzibar, 
Or  to  the  regions  of  the  Midnight  Sun  ; 
Ionian  isles  are  thine,  and  all  the  fairy  shores ! 


402  XXVIII  SONNETS 


XXII 

ELLEN  TERRY  IN  "THE  MERCHANT 
OF  VENICE" 

As  there  she  lives  and  moves  upon  the  scene, 
So  lived  and  moved  this  radiant  womanhood 
In  Shakespeare's  vision  j  in  such  wise  she  stood 
Smiling  upon  Bassanio  ;  such  her  mien 
When  pity  dimmed  her  eyelids'  golden  sheen, 
Hearing  Antonio's  story,  and  the  blood 
Paled  on  her  cheek,  and  all  her  lightsome  mood 
Was  gone.     This  shape  in  Shakespeare's  thought 

has  been  ! 

Thus  dreamt  he  of  her  in  gray  London  town  ; 
Such  were  her  eyes  ;  on  such  gold-colored  hair 
The  grave  young  judge's  velvet  cap  was  set ; 
So  stood  she  lovely  in  her  crimson  gown. 
Mine  were  a  happy  cast,  could  I  but  snare 
Her  beauty  in  a  sonnet's  fragile  net. 


XXVIII  SONNETS  403 

XXIII 

THE   POETS 

WHEN  this  young  Land  has  reached  its  wrinkled 

prime, 

And  we  are  gone  and  all  our  songs  are  done, 
And  naught  is  left  unchanged  beneath  the  sun, 
What  other  singers  shall  the  womb  of  Time 
Bring  forth  to  reap  the  sunny  slopes  of  rhyme  ? 
For  surely  till  the  thread  of  life  be  spun 
The  world  shall  not  lack  poets,  though  but  one 
Make  lonely  music  like  a  vesper  chime 
Above  the  heedless  turmoil  of  the  street. 
What  new  strange  voices  shall  be  given  to  these, 
What  richer  accents  of  melodious  breath  ? 
Yet  shall  they,  baffled,  lie  at  Nature's  feet 
Searching  the  volume  of  her  mysteries, 
And  vainly  question  the  fixed  eyes  of  Death. 


404  XXVIII  SONNETS 

XXIV 

THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY 

FOREVER  am  I  conscious,  moving  here, 

That  should  I  step  a  little  space  aside 

I  pass  the  boundary  of  some  glorified 

Invisible  domain  —  it  lies  so  near  ! 

Yet  nothing  know  we  of  that  dim  frontier 

Which  each  must  cross,  whatever  fate  betide, 

To  reach  the  heavenly  cities  where  abide 

(Thus  Sorrow  whispers)  those  that  were  most  dear, 

Now  all  transfigured  in  celestial  light ! 

Shall  we  indeed  behold  them,  thine  and  mine, 

Whose  going  hence  made  black  the  noonday  sun  ?  — 

Strange  is  it  that  across  the  narrow  night 

They  fling  us  not  some  token,  or  make  sign 

That  all  beyond  is  not  Oblivion. 


XXVIII  SONNETS  405 

XXV 

ANDROMEDA 

THE   smooth-worn   coin   and   threadbare  classic 

phrase 

Of  Grecian  myths  that  did  beguile  my  youth, 
Beguile  me  not  as  in  the  olden  days  : 
I  think  more  grief  and  beauty  dwell  with  truth. 
Andromeda,  in  fetters  by  the  sea, 
Star-pale  with  anguish  till  young  Perseus  came, 
Less  moves  me  with  her  suffering  than  she, 
The  slim  girl  figure  fettered  to  dark  shame, 
That  nightly  haunts  the  park,  there,  like  a  shade, 
Trailing  her  wretchedness  from  street  to  street. 
See  where  she  passes  —  neither  wife  nor  maid  ; 
How  all  mere  fiction  crumbles  at  her  feet ! 
Here  is  woe's  self,  and  not  the  mask  of  woe: 
A  legend's  shadow  shall  not  move  you  so  ! 


4o6  XXVIII  SONNETS 

XXVI 

REMINISCENCE 

THOUGH  I  am  native  to  this  frozen  zone 

That  half  the  twelvemonth  torpid  lies,  or  dead  ; 

Though  the  cold  azure  arching  overhead 

And  the  Atlantic's  never-ending  moan 

Are  mine  by  heritage,  I  must  have  known 

Life  otherwhere  in  epochs  long  since  fled ; 

For  in  my  veins  some  Orient  blood  is  red, 

And  through  my  thought  are  lotus  blossoms  blown. 

I  do  remember  ...  it  was  just  at  dusk, 

Near  a  walled  garden  at  the  river's  turn 

(A  thousand  summers  seem  but  yesterday  !), 

A  Nubian  girl,  more  sweet  than  Khoorja  musk, 

Came  to  the  water-tank  to  fill  her  urn, 

And,  with  the  urn,  she  bore  my  heart  away ! 


XXVIII  SONNETS  40? 


XXVII 

ON    READING  WILLIAM  WATSON'S    SON- 
NETS ENTITLED   "THE  PURPLE  EAST" 

1896 

RESTLESS  the  Northern  Bear  amid  his  snows 
Crouched  by  the  Neva  ;  menacing  is  France, 
That  sees  the  shadow  of  the  Uhlan's  lance 
On  her  clipped  borders  ;  struggling  in  the  throes 
Of  wanton  war  lies  Spain,  and  deathward  goes. 
And  thou,  O  England,  how  the  time's  mischance 
Hath  fettered  thee,  that  with  averted  glance 
Thou  standest,  marble  to  Armenia's  woes ! 
If  't  was  thy  haughty  Daughter  of  the  West 
That  stayed  thy  hand,  a  word  had  driven  away 
Her  sudden  ire,  and  brought  her  to  thy  breast ! 
Thy  blood  makes  quick  her  pulses,  and  some  day, 
Not  now,  yet  some  day,  at  thy  soft  behest 
She  by  thy  side  shall  hold  the  world  at  bay. 


408  XXVIII  SONNETS 


XXVIII 

"I  VEX  ME  NOT  WITH  BROODING  ON 
THE   YEARS" 

I  VEX  me  not  with  brooding  on  the  years 

That  were  ere  I  drew  breath  :  why  should  I  then 

Distrust  the  darkness  that  may  fall  again 

When  life  is  done  ?     Perchance  in  other  spheres  — 

Dead  planets  —  I  once  tasted  mortal  tears, 

And  walked  as  now  amid  a  throng  of  men, 

Pondering  things  that  lay  beyond  my  ken, 

Questioning  death,  and  solacing  my  fears. 

Ofttimes  indeed  strange  sense  have  I  of  this, 

Vague  memories  that  hold  me  with  a  spell, 

Touches  of  unseen  lips  upon  my  brow, 

Breathing  some  incommunicable  bliss  ! 

In  years  foregone,  O  Soul,  was  all  not  well  ? 

Still  lovelier  life  awaits  thee.     Fear  not  thou ! 


AN   ODE 

ON    THE   UNVEILING    OF   THE    SHAW 
MEMORIAL   ON    BOSTON    COMMON 

May  Thirty-First,  1897 


NOT  with  slow,  funereal  sound 
Come  we  to  this  sacred  ground  ; 
Not  with  wailing  fife  and  solemn  muffled  drum, 
Bringing  a  cypress  wreath 

To  lay,  with  bended  knee, 
On  the  cold  brows  of  Death  — 
Not  so,  dear  God,  we  come, 
But  with  the  trumpets'  blare 
And  shot-torn  battle-banners  flung  to  air, 
As  for  a  victory ! 

Hark  to  the  measured  tread  of  martial  feet, 
The  music  and  the  murmurs  of  the  street ! 

No  bugle  breathes  this  day 

Disaster  and  retreat !  — 
409 


410  SHAW  MEMORIAL  ODE 

Hark,  how  the  iron  lips 
Of  the  great  battle-ships 
Salute  the  City  from  her  azure  Bay ! 


ii 


Time  was  —  time  was,  ah,  unforgotten  years  !  — 
We  paid  our  hero  tribute  of  our  tears. 

But  now  let  go 

All  sounds  and  signs  and  formulas  of  woe  : 
'T  is  Life,  not  Death,  we  celebrate  ; 
To  Life,  not  Death,  we  dedicate 
This  storied  bronze,  whereon  is  wrought 
The  lithe  immortal  figure  of  our  thought, 
To  show  forever  to  men's  eyes, 
Our  children's  children's  children's  eyes, 
How  once  he  stood 
In  that  heroic  mood, 
He  and  his  dusky  braves 
So  fain  of  glorious  graves  !  — 
One  instant  stood,  and  then 
Drave   through    that   cloud   of  purple  steel   and 

flame, 

Which  wrapt  him,  held  him,  gave  him  not  again, 
But  in  its  trampled  ashes  left  to  Fame 
An  everlasting  name ! 


SHAW  MEMORIAL  ODE  4II 


in 

That  was  indeed  to  live  — 

At  one  bold  swoop  to  wrest 

From  darkling  death  the  best 

That  death  to  life  can  give. 

He  fell  as  Roland  fell 

That  day  at  Roncevaux, 
With  foot  upon  the  ramparts  of  the  foe ! 

A  paean,  not  a  knell, 

For  heroes  dying  so  ! 

No  need  for  sorrow  here, 

No  room  for  sigh  or  tear, 
Save  such  rich  tears  as  happy  eyelids  know. 

See  where  he  rides,  our  Knight  ! 

Within  his  eyes  the  light 
Of  battle,  and  youth's  gold  about  his  brow ; 
Our  Paladin,  our  Soldier  of  the  Cross, 

Not  weighing  gain  with  loss  — 

World-loser,  that  won  all 

Obeying  duty's  call ! 

Not  his,  at  peril's  frown, 

A  pulse  of  quicker  beat ; 

Not  his  to  hesitate 

And  parley  hold  with  Fate, 

But  proudly  to  fling  down 

His  gauntlet  at  her  feet. 


412  SHAW  MEMORIAL  ODE 

O  soul  of  loyal  valor  and  white  truth, 

Here,  by  this  iron  gate, 
Thy  serried  ranks  about  thee  as  of  yore, 

Stand  thou  for  evermore 

In  thy  undying  youth  ! 

The  tender  heart,  the  eagle  eye  ! 
Oh,  unto  him  belong 
The  homages  of  Song ; 
Our  praises  and  the  praise 
Of  coming  days 
To  him  belong  — 
To  him,  to  him,  the  dead  that  shall  not  die 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 

A  blight,  a  gloom,  I  know  not  what,  has  crept  upon  my  gladness,  356. 

A  certain  man  of  Ischia  —  it  is  thus,  101. 

A  certain  Pasha,  dead  these  thousand  years,  54. 

A  crafty  Persian  set  this  stone,  69. 

A  glance,  a  word  —  and  joy  or  pain,  203. 

A  gothic  window,  where  a  damask  curtain,  141. 

A  little  mound  with  chipped  headstone,  196. 

A  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof,  14. 

A  poor  dwarf's  figure,  looming  through  the  dense,  201. 

A  soldier  of  the  Cromwell  stamp,  47. 

A  sorrowful  woman  said  to  me,  38. 

Above  an  ancient  book,  with  a  knight's  crest,  265. 

After  long  days  of  angry  sea  and  sky,  377. 

Ah,  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love,  59. 

All  day  to  watch  the  blue  wave  curl  and  break,  25. 

As  sweet  as  the  breath  that  goes,  42. 

As  there  she  lives  and  moves  upon  the  scene,  402. 

At  Haroun's  court  it  chanced,  upon  a  time,  62. 

At  noon  of  night,  and  at  the  night's  pale  end,  42. 

At  Shiraz,  in  a  sultan's  garden,  stood,  i. 

Because  the  sky  is  blue  ;  because  blithe  May,  400. 
Because  thou  com'st,  a  weary  guest,  54. 
Before  you  reach  the  slender,  high-arched  bridge,  213. 
Beneath  the  heavy  veil  you  wear,  49. 
Beneath  the  warrior's  helm,  behold,  126. 
Between  the  budding  and  the  falling  leaf,  291. 
Black  Tragedy  lets  slip  her  grim  disguise,  197. 
Bonnet  in  hand,  obsequious  and  discreet,  204. 


4H  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Bre"tagne  had  not  her  peer.     In  the  Province  far  or  near,  103. 
By  studying  my  lady's  eyes,  137. 

Close  on  the  edge  of  a  midsummer  dawn,  278. 
Curled  up  and  sitting  on  her  feet,  148. 

Day  is  a  snow-white  Dove  of  heaven,  195. 

Enamored  architect  of  airy  rhyme,  386. 
Ere  half  the  good  I  planned  to  do,  202. 
Ere  the  moon  begins  to  rise,  377. 

Fantastic  sleep  is  busy  with  my  eyes,  390. 
First,  two  white  arms  that  held  him  very  close,  357. 
Fixed  to  her  necklace,  like  another  gem,  200. 
Forever  am  I  conscious,  moving  here,  404. 
From  mask  to  mask,  amid  the  masquerade,  200. 
From  yonder  gilded  minaret,  287. 

Gaunt  shadows  stretch  along  the  hill,  38. 

Gifts  they  sent  her  manifold,  376. 

Good-night !  I  have  to  say  good-night,  41. 

Good  sir,  have  you  seen  pass  this  way,  123. 

Great  Captain,  glorious  in  our  wars,  371. 

Great  thoughts  in  crude,  unshapely  verse  set  forth,  199. 

Hassan  ben  Abdul  at  the  Ivory  Gate,  67. 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell,  3. 

Here,  in  the  twilight,  at  the  well-known  gate,  261. 

Herewith  I  send  you  three  pressed  withered  flowers,  392. 

High  in  a  tower  she  sings,  373. 

Honest  lago.     When  his  breath  was  fled,  197. 

How  long,  O  sister,  how  long,  273. 

Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices,  29. 

I  beg  you  come  to-night  and  dine,  128. 

I  gave  my  heart  its  freedom  to  be  gay,  198. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  415 

I  held  his  letter  in  my  hand,  369. 

know  not  in  what  fashion  she  was  made,  294. 

leave  behind  me  the  elm-shadowed  square,  401. 

like  not  lady-slippers,  60. 

little  know  or  care,  362. 

little  read  those  poets  who  have  made,  203. 

pray  you.  do  not  turn  your  head,  130. 
I  say  it  under  the  rose,  150. 
I  vex  me  not  with  brooding  on  the  years,  408. 
I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week,  43. 
I  would  be  the  Lyric,  49. 
If  my  best  wines  mislike  thy  taste,  204. 
If  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me,  35. 
I  '11  not  confer  with  Sorrow,  363. 
Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep,  141. 
In  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind,  47. 
In  other  years  —  lost  youth's  enchanted  years,  34. 
In  the  crypt  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  45. 
In  the  draperies'  purple  gloom,  61. 
In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night,  374. 
In  youth,  beside  the  lonely  sea,  370. 
In  youth  my  hair  was  black  as  night,  201. 
It  happened  once,  in  that  brave  land  that  lies,  257. 
It  was  with  doubt  and  trembling,  229. 

Just  as  the  moon  was  fading  amid  her  misty  rings,  50. 

Kind  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land,  55. 
Knowledge  —  who  hath  it  ?     Nay,  not  thou,  369. 

"  Let  art  be  all  in  all,"  one  time  I  said,  374. 

Let  us  keep  him  warm,  23. 

Like  Crusoe,  walking  by  the  lonely  strand,  368. 

Linked  to  a  clod,  harassed,  and  sad,  198. 

Listen,  my  masters  !     I  speak  naught  but  truth,  292. 

Long  ere  the  Pale  Face,  90. 


4i6  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Looking  at  Fra  Gervasio,  107. 
Lying  by  the  summer  sea,  9. 

Manoah's  son,  in  his  blind  rage  malign,  196. 
My  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things,  356. 

Near  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  picture  jewels  could  not  buy  from  me, 

56. 

No  bird  has  ever  uttered  note,  203. 
No  slightest  golden  rhyme  he  wrote,  203. 
No  wonder  Hafiz  wrote  such  verses,  when,  201. 
Not  a  breath  in  the  stifled,  dingy  street !  364. 
Not  in  the  fabled  influence  of  some  star,  395. 
Not  of  desire  alone  is  music  born,  381. 
Not  with  slow,  funereal  sound,  409. 
Now  is  that  sad  time  of  year,  372. 
Now  the  red  wins  upon  her  cheek,  199. 
Now  there  was  one  who  came  in  later  days,  279. 

O  cease,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest,  58. 

O  Hassem,  greeting  !     Peace  be  thine  !  72. 

O  Wind  and  Wave,  be  kind  to  him,  295. 

October  turned  my  maple's  leaves  to  gold,  195. 

Once  he  sang  of  summer,  37. 

One  by  one  they  go,  288. 

One  went  East,  and  one  went  West,  366. 

Or  light  or  dark,  or  short  or  tall,  197. 

Pauline!  303. 

Pillared  arch  and  sculptured  tower,  359. 

Pleasant  it  is  to  lie  amid  the  grass,  388. 

Rafters  black  with  smoke,  135. 

Reader,  you  must  take  this  verse,  195. 

Restless  the  Northern  Bear  amid  his  snows,  407. 

Romance  beside  his  unstrung  lute,  45. 

Room  in  your  heart  for  him,  O  Mother  Earth,  297. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  417 

Scarcely  sixteen  years  old,  145. 

See  where  at  intervals  the  firefly's  spark,  202. 

See  where  she  stands,  on  the  wet  sea-sands,  27. 

Shakespeare  and  Milton  —  what  third  blazoned  name,  283. 

Sick  of  myself  and  all  that  keeps  the  light,  385. 

Slumber,  hasten  down  this  way,  366. 

So,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought,  58. 

So  closely  knit  are  mind  and  brain,  202. 

Some  weep  because  they  part,  199. 

Somewhere  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space,  48. 

Soothed  by  the  fountain's  drowsy  murmuring,  98. 

Sorrow,  make  a  verse  for  me,  375. 

Stand  here  and  look,  and  softly  draw  your  breath,  396. 

Such  kings  of  shreds  have  wooed  and  won  her,  197. 

Take  these  rhymes  into  thy  grace,  359. 

That  face  which  no  man  ever  saw,  300. 

The  bloom  that  lies  on  Hilda's  cheek,  142. 

The  camp  is  hushed  ;  the  fires  burn  low,  168. 

The  face  that  Carlo  Dolci  drew,  19. 

The  fault 's  not  mine,  you  understand,  198. 

The  first  world-sound  that  fell  upon  my  ear,  271. 

The  folk  who  lived  in  Shakespeare's  day,  358. 

The  Friar  Jerome,  for  some  slight  sin,  81. 

The  gray  arch  crumbles,  16. 

The  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed,  382. 

The  leafless  branches  snap  with  cold,  138. 

The  long  years  come  and  go,  205. 

The  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky,  355. 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room,  36. 

The  sky  is  gray  as  gray  may  be,  365. 

The  small  green  grapes  in  heavy  clusters  grew,  348. 

The  smooth-worn  coin  and  threadbare  classic  phrase,  405. 

The  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves,  383. 

The  spare  Professor,  grave  and  bald,  133. 

The  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes,  51. 

The  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is,  30. 


4i8  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  wind  it  wailed,  the  wind  it  moaned,  285. 

The  woodland  silence,  one  time  stirred,  367. 

There  is  a  rest  for  all  things.     On  still  nights,  12. 

These  winter  nights,  against  my  window-pane,  37. 

They  never  crowned  him,  never  dreamed  his  worth,  398. 

They  parted,  with  clasps  of  hand,  129. 

This  is  the  difference,  neither  more  nor  less,  198. 

This  one  sits  shivering  in  Fortune's  smile,  196. 

Those  forms  we  fancy  shadows,  those  strange  lights,  387. 

Thou  listenest  to  us  with  unheeding  ear,  44. 

Thou  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles,  7. 

Though  gifts  like  thine  the  fates  gave  not  to  me,  68. 

Though  I  am  native  to  this  frozen  zone,  406. 

Three  roses,  wan  as  moonlight  and  weighed  down,  46. 

Through  a  chance  fissure  of  the  churchyard  wall,  361. 

Thus  spake  his  dust,  so  seemed  it  as  1  read,  391. 

'T  is  that  fair  time  of  year,  21. 

To  him  that  hath,  we  are  told,  196. 

To  spring  belongs  the  violet,  and  the  blown,  379. 

To  the  sea-shell's  spiral  round,  40. 

Toiling  across  the  Mer  de  Glace,  51. 

Touched  with  the  delicate  green  of  early  May,  389. 

Tread  softly  here  ;  the  sacredest  of  tombs,  277. 

Two  things  there  are  with  Memory  will  abide,  202. 

Unheralded,  like  some  tornado  loosed,  315. 

Up  from  the  dark  the  moon  begins  to  creep,  200. 

Up  to  her  chamber  window,  39. 

Upon  your  hearse  this  flower  I  lay,  360. 

Vain  is  the  mask.     Who  cannot  at  desire,  199. 
Valor,  love,  undoubting  trust,  378. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn,  36. 
What  mortal  knows,  201. 
When  all  the  panes  are  hung  with  frost,  63. 
When  first  the  crocus  thrusts  its  point  of  gold,  363. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  419 

When  friends  are  at  your  hearthside  met,  200. 

When  from  the  tense  chords  of  that  mighty  lyre,  301. 

When  I  behold  what  pleasure  is  pursuit,  384. 

When  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart,  52. 

When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman,  65. 

When  this  young  Land  has  reached  its  wrinkled  prime,  403. 

When  to  soft  sleep  we  give  ourselves  away,  394. 

While  yet  my  lip  was  breathing  youth's  first  breath,  399. 

Who  can  say  where  Echo  dwells,  149. 

Who  is  it  opens  her  blue  bright  eye,  177. 

Who  is  Lydia,  pray,  and  who,  153. 

Wide  open  and  unguarded  stand  our  gates,  275. 

Within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  mosque,  70. 

Wouldst  know  the  clash  of  knightly  steel  on  steel,  361. 

Yonder  we  see  it  from  the  steamer's  deck,  393. 

You  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no,  53. 

You  by  the  Arno  shape  your  marble  dream,  397. 


GENERAL   INDEX   OF   TITLES 


The  titles  of  major  works  and  of  general  divisions  are  set  in  SMALL 
CAPITALS. 


Act  V.,  357 
After  the  Rain,  36 
Alec  Yeaton's  Son,  285 
Alpine  Picture,  An,  396 
Amontillado,  135 
Andromeda,  405 
Apparitions,  42 
Appreciation,  40 
Arab  Welcome,  An,  54 
Art,  374 
At  a  Grave,  378 
At  a  Reading,  133 
At  Bay  Ridge,  Long  Island,  388 
At  Nijnii-Novgorod,  69 
At  Stratford-upon-Avon,  391 
At  the    Funeral  of  a   Minor   Poet, 
297 

BABY  BELL  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  3 

Baby  Bell,  3 

BAGATELLE,  123 

Ballad,  A,  103 

Batuschka,  287 

Bay  Ridge,  Long  Island,  At,  388 

Bayard  Taylor,  34 

Before  the  Rain,  36 

Bells  at  Midnight,  The,  273 

Books  and  Seasons,  400 

Bridal  Measure,  A,  376 

Broken  Music,  294 

Brownell,  Henry  Howard,  398 

By  the  Potomac,  383 

Carpe  Diem,  137 

Child's  Grave,  A,  196 

Circumstance,  198 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD,  53 

Comedy,  129 

Coquette,  197 

Corydon  —  A  Pastoral,  123 

Cradle  Song,  377 

Crescent  and  the  Cross,  The,  55 


Dans  la  Boheme,  138 
Day  and  Night,  195 
Dedication,  A,  359 
Destiny,  46 
Difference,  The,  199 
Dirge,  23 
Discipline,  45 
Dressing  the  Bride,  58 

Echo  Song,  149 

Egypt,  39° 

Eidolons,  387 

Elective  Course,  An,  142 

Ellen  Terry  in  "  The    Merchant  of 

Venice,"  402 
Elmwood,  261 
Enamored  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

386 

Epitaphs,  197 

Even  this  will  pass  away,  389 
Evil  Easier  than  Good,  202 

Fireflies,  202 

Flight  of  the  Goddess,  The,  14 

FLOWER  AND  THORN,  i 

FOOTNOTES,  195 

Forever  and  a  Day,  362 

Fredericksburg,  382 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK 

AND  OTHER  POEMS,  81 
Friar  Jerome's  Beautiful  Book,  Si 
From  Eastern  Sources,  201 
From  the  Spanish,  196 
Frost- Work,  37 
Funeral  of  a  Minor  Poet,   At  the, 

297 

Grace  and  Strength,  196 

Great  captain,  glorious  in  our  wars, 

371 

Guerdon,  The,  98 
Guilielmus  Rex,  358 


GENERAL  INDEX  OF  TITLES 


421 


Hafiz,  To,  68 

Henry  Howard  Brownell,  398 

Heredity,  47 

Hesperides,  35 

Hint  from  Herrick,  A,  203 

Hospitality,  200 

Human  Ignorance,  201 

I  vex  me  not  with  brooding  on  the 

years,  408 
Identity,  48 

I  '11  not  confer  with  Sorrow,  363 
Imogen,  375 
Imp  of  Dreams,  141 
In  an  Atelier,  130 
In  the  Belfry  of  the  Nieuwe  Kerk, 


Westminster  Abbey,  277 


364 

In  Westminster  Aroey,  27 
In    youth,    beside    the    lonely   sea, 

37° 

Insomnia,  366 
INTERLUDES,  35,  355 
Invita  Minerva,  381 
Invocation  to  Sleep,  12 

JUDITH  AND  HOLOFERNES,  315 

Kismet,  203 
Knowledge,  369 
Kriss  Kringle,  50 

Lament  of  El  Moulok,  The,  70 

Landscape,  38 

Last  Caesar,  The,  279 

Latakia,  63 

L'Eau  Dormante,  148 

Legend  of  Ara-Cceli,  The,  107 

Letter,  The,  369 

Like  Crusoe,  walking  by  the  lonely 

strand,  368 
Lorelei,  The,  393 
Lost  Art,  52 
Lost  at  Sea,  19 
Love's  Calendar,  51 
Lunch,  The,  141 
Lynn  Terrace,  On,  25 
Lyrics  and  Epics,  49 

Maple  Leaves,  195 
Masks,  197 
Memories,  202 
Memory,  356 
Menu,  The,  128 
MERCEDES,  155 
Metempsychosis,  The,  30 
Miantowona,  90 
Miracles,  385 


Monody  on  the  Death  of  Wendell 

Phillips,  288 
Mood,  A,  356 
Moonrise  at  Sea,  200 
Myrtilla,  198 

Nameless  Pain,  47 
Necromancy,  361 
Nijnii-Noygorod,  At,  69 
No  Songs  in  Winter,  365 
Nocturne,  39 
Nourmadee,  72 

Ode  on  the  Unveiling  of  the  Shaw 
Memorial  on  Boston  Common, 
An,  409 

Old  Castle,  An,  16 

On  a  volume  of  anonymous  poems 
entitled  "  A  Masque  of  Poets," 
199 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva, 
126 

On  her  Blushing,  199 

On  Lynn  Terrace,  25 

On  Reading  William  Watson's  Son- 
nets entitled  "The  Purple  East," 
407 

On  reading ,  199 

One  White  Rose,  The,  38 

One  Woman,  44 

Originality,  203 

Outward  Bound,  401 

Palabras  Carinosas,  41 

Palinode,  153 

Pampina,  9 

Parable,  A,  366 

PAULINE  PAVLOVNA,  303 

Pepita,  145 

Pessimist  and  Optimist,  196 

Pessimistic  Poets,  203 

Petition,  A,  379 

Phillips,   Wendell,   Monody  on   the 

Death  of,  288 
Piazza  of  St.  Mark  at  Midnight,  The, 

Pillared  arch  and  sculptured  tower, 

359 

Piscataqua  River,  7 
Poets,  The,  403 
Points  of  View,  204 
Popularity,  197 
Prelude,  A,  67 
Prescience,  355 
Problem,  202 

Proem  (to  CLOTH  OF  GOLD),  53 
^ursuit  and  Possession,  384 


422 


GENERAL  INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Queen's  Ride,  The,  21 
Quits,  204 

Rarity  of  Genius,  The,  399 
Realism,  45 
Refrain,  A,  373 
Reminiscence,  406 
Rencontre,  51 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  200 
Rose,  The,  200 

Sailing  of  the  Autocrat,  The,  295 

Santo  Domingo,  377 

Sargent's  Portrait  of  Edwin  Booth 
at  "  The  Players,"  300 

Sea  Longings,  271 

Seadrift,  27 

Seeming  Defeat,  367 

Sestet,  361 

Shadow  of  the  Night,  A,  278 

Shaw  Memorial,  An  Ode  on  the  Un- 
veiling of  the,  409 

Shipman's  Tale,  The,  292 

SISTERS'  TRAGEDY,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS,  THE,  257 

Sisters'  Tragedy,  The,  257 

Sleep,  394 

Snowflake,  A,  37 

Soldiers'  Song,  168 

SONNETS,  XXVIII,  381 

Spendthrift,  198 

SPRING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND,  205 

Stratford-upon-Avon,  At,  391 

Sultana,  The,  61 

Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more,  229 

Taylor,  Bayard,  34 


Tennyson, 283 

Thalia,  150 

Thorwaldsen,  395 

Three    Little    White    Teeth,    The, 

177 

Threnody,  360 
Tiger  Lilies,  60 
Tita's  Tears,  101 
To  Hafiz,  68 

To  L.  T.  in  Florence,  397 
To  the  Reader,  195 
Touch  of  Nature,  A,  363 
Turkish  Legend,  A,  54 
Two  Masks,  The,  198 
Two  Moods,  291 
Two  Songs  from  the  Persian,  58 

Undiscovered  Country,  The,  404 
Unforgiven,  The,  56 
Unguarded  Gates,  275 
Unsung,  42 
Untimely  Thought,  An,  43 

Voice  of  the  Sea,  The,  374 

Westminster  Abbey,  In,  277 
When  from  the  tense  chords  of  that 

mighty  lyre,  301 
When  the  Sultan  goes  to  Ispahan, 

White  Edith,  265 
Winter  Piece,  A,  49 
Winter  Robin,  The,  372 
With  Three  Flowers,  392 
World's  Way,  The,  62 
WYNDHAM  TOWERS,  213 


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